


M for Marriage

by RonaSargent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adventure, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 28,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2761865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RonaSargent/pseuds/RonaSargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson finds out who he is actually married to. It's not who he thought.<br/>Beset with marital problems and with distraction in mind, a distressed John Watson helps Sherlock Holmes on a fast paced, high profile case. Unexpected revelations resolve not just the case but all the unanswered questions from S3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tate Britain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivyblossom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyblossom/gifts).



At the summit of twenty grey steps flaps the crow of Sherlock’s Belstaff coat. Tate Britain, Millbank. I’m breathless, I’m high on adrenalin and I’ve got no idea why I’m here. 

There’s a cold wind at my face and my chest is pounding as I sprint up the steps past the zig zag of littered tourists. I take my place by his side. There may be trouble. I pat my gun secured behind me in my waistband.

We don’t do greetings, but he glances down and treats me to a fond smile. 

“So what’s this about?” I ask.

“Mycroft’s lot had a tip-off about some sort of security threat involving Tate Britain archive collection. Asked me to look into it before he got the Met involved. It’s probably nothing. His blood pressure’s back up again.” 

Sherlock’s heavy caseload since Moriarty’s ‘resurrection’ two weeks ago has made me the least reliable health care provider in London. ‘Standing by, available’, following him to all corners of the city, some places I didn’t even know existed. Twelve cases in a fortnight. He always wants me involved. It’s been amazing, exhilarating, exhausting. His text came in at the end of surgery today. Millbank is only two stops away so I took the tube, left the car at the surgery. It’s quicker this time of day.

His turn at the information desk: “Good morning, would you mind showing me the way to the basement archives?” 

She’s a tall, attractive girl barely in her twenties, thin lipped, her dark hair pulled hard into a ponytail giving her an unwarranted facelift.

“The reference number of your booking please, sir.”

“I just need a few minutes down there, I don’t mean to put you to any trouble.”

“It’s not possible without booking in advance sir, due to the necessary security arrangements.”

“But you don’t understand, there’s–”

“Sir, if you go to our website–”

_Oh don’t say that, that phrase really winds him up._

So the exchange goes on and I can see that Sherlock is running out of both patience and politeness. So am I, she’s annoying. He’ll sort it.

They’ve done a nice job of the refurbishment in here. Monochrome, marble, classy very classy - What! Some arsehole in a suit just bodychecked me without even apologising. That was my bad shoulder, too. Glancing behind him, he sizes me up, obviously rating me as a bit of a pleb. I’ve got him down as a stuck-up twat. My eyes follow him. He walks behind the desk leans over ‘Ponytail’, to quickly type something on the keyboard, disappears into the wings. 

Sherlock is still at it: “All things equal, I could argue that you are not supposed to be here either. At least not without a work permit which I’m guessing you don’t have. Did Mr Holborn there forge the necessary documents enabling you to stay in the country perhaps? I don’t need to ask what was in it for him. It’s obvious by that love bite just below his right ear. Tell me, do you have any other talents? Granting us access to downstairs for example?” He brings out his snake-like grin.

Her face reddens. She glares at him, her brain no doubt scrolling through the limited options. She asks: “Who are you?” 

Sherlock pulls out some ID from his pocket collection. Nods to me.

“We’re here on behalf of the home office, investigating a confidential matter of national security. Now if it’s not too much trouble I would be obliged if you would show us to the basement.” He steps back in expectation. Waits. Yes, bingo. He seems to have acquired the password. 

Two minutes later, we’re inside the lift and she’s on the outside punching in a code. As the doors close, her expression changes from an icy stare to mounting anxiety. I think Sherlock just ruined her day. He does that a lot to people now I come to think about it.

The slow lift descends. We stand shoulder to shoulder.

“And you got all that...how?” I ask. His answer is a wink.. 

“No, really. How did you know all that?” Yes, Sherlock, I am that dim.

“Obvious. Her accent, the name on her badge. She’s Croatian. She would need a permit to work here. Her colleague is Sir Henry Holborn, we were at University together although he doesn’t appear to remember me. He had a weakness for pretty young girls, it got him in all kinds of trouble. The way he closed in on her personal space, the fact that when he used the computer he was stroking her behind with the other hand, well, that was a bit forward, even for him. It was an obvious assumption”. 

Yes. obvious, I suppose. Obvious to him, anyway. I glow inside as I shake my head. I’m thinking: “ _I love it when you do that._ ”

I’m saying: “You can be such a bastard!” 

The lift gently stills, the doors open. We’re in another world. No grandeur here, but a low-ceilinged, vast underground repository. There doesn’t seem to be anyone about. There are lines of full height sliding storage units: white and stainless steel. Down the centre, rows of dexion racking groan under the weight of objects in bubble-wrap shrouds. Each of them wears a label, everything here is catalogued and quantified, it’s like the tagging of the dead. Actually apart from the heavy aroma of linseed oil, it reminds me a lot of Bart’s morgue down here... 

Sherlock is already down the nearest aisle, sniffing around the dead treasures like a bloodhound. I’ll check around this area first then catch him up. I’m not even sure what we are looking for. I don’t think he knows, either. 

Sherlock has sniffed off out of my sight. Security-wise, its pretty tight down here. On the ceiling, fluorescent tubes run along each lane. There are cameras and convex mirrors at every corner. 

Footsteps behind me. I spin round. No one particularly villainous - it’s our over-deodorised friend Holborn at the foot of a stairwell with two uniformed security guards. Unrestricted access to the Tate archives is not happening. They’re coming towards me trying (failing) to look intimidating. Sighing deeply I offer them some bollocks about home office investigation and the importance of confidentiality. He’s not easily placated. He’s asking to know more. Refers to Sherlock as ‘Mr Holmes’ so perhaps he does remember him from University. I try to be ‘nice’ - try to act like a civil servant. He doesn’t like me. The feeling’s mutual. 

Bang! An explosion of fluorescent tubing, a clatter of metal racking, an avalanche of wood and glass landing on concrete. In a second I’m there. A thick set bloke in a dustcoat is grappling with Sherlock. I’m not sure who has the upper hand. As I approach, Sherlock gains a free arm, busts him in the face, there’s a splash of mouth blood coming at me. He’s mine now. One to the ribs, now the other side, he’s not quick enough - kneecaps - he’s going down, my gun’s out, hard smack over the back of the head. Metal on bone. Short grunt, he’s on the ground.

Sherlock gets out his handkerchief and wipes his knuckles with a smug smile. A Stanley knife lies on the concrete floor. We leave it. Dustcoat’s not moving. Oh dear. I think I must have knocked him out. I wonder what kicked this off.

“What did I miss?” I ask. 

“This chap here was cutting canvases out of their frames. I suggested that might not be in his job description. He - took offence.…… Not sure all of that was strictly necessary, though John..." Sherlock indicates towards ‘Dustcoat’ bleeding on the ground. He adds: ”By the way, how is Mary?”


	2. St Thomas's Hospital

_Bloody Mary_ I call her (not out loud, obviously). In truth, since Sherlock’s failed deportation I’ve hardly seen her. She hasn’t pushed the issue either so I don’t know what that means. We are cohabiting again anyway so that’s a start... There are a lot of conversations we need to have. When I’ve got more time.

I must say, apart from today, her car has been invaluable - getting around town on short notice day and night, so much more convenient than cabs.

This morning, though she got up early and tackled me about it. Her sarcastic comments earned a reply then it escalated into a full scale morning row. Yes, technically it is her car, not mine but as we are married after all (what’s her’s is mine) and as I currently need it a lot more than she does (she’s pregnant, not working, nowhere she needs to go) I don’t understand her problem. Then, (as often happens during these heated debates), other issues came up. 

We haven’t shared a bed since the first night I took her back. She says my nightmares disturb her. She says that she and the baby need their sleep. So I am in the spare room with all my possessions, like a bloody lodger. 

I said some things I shouldn’t have said (although all of them are true) and stormed off to work slamming the door behind me. I did take the car, too. Not to be bloody minded as such, but by then it was too late to do anything else, I was going to be late. 

She says she loves me. She says she doesn’t want me to leave. She’s carrying our child.

Oh shit, Mycroft has joined us in the basement. He strides out of the lift with a face like thunder. Security goons and incoming paramedics get out of his way.

He’s looking straight through me as usual, “What on earth are you playing at, brother mine?” Mycroft’s face blooms scarlet. Sherlock is busy tucking in his white shirt (and he’s getting too thin). 

“Well this was your idea, Mycroft - ” says Sherlock.

Dustcoat interrupts, audibly reaching consciousness. Paramedic No.1 sets to work trying to get a response: “Can you tell me your name?” I could have done all that. 

I’d hoped Mycroft might be here for some practical purpose but it turns out he’s just stopping by to berate his brother. After a deep breath, he barks:

“What possessed you, Sherlock to steal my M15 identification to pass yourself off as me at The Tate Gallery of all places?” 

“I just thought it would be quicker. Why are you making such a fuss? It’s not like I never pickpocket you.” sighs Sherlock, face like a petulant teenager. 

The lift doors open again and two police officers get out. Mycroft’s head may burst. “I was contacted by The Tate’s head of security just as I was trying to get into Thames House - with no security pass!” 

“What, Tate Britain’s head of security has your direct number?” scoffs Sherlock, in disbelief.  
“I sit on the board of trustees.”

“Right.” Sherlock nods. 

The police officers have been speaking with yet another security lummox near the lift doors. Now they’re coming over here to us. 

Mycroft’s still ranting, “I said a ‘discreet, preliminary visit.’ Is that what you call this?” 

“I was taking the direct approach,” says Sherlock.

A police officer stands facing Mycroft with her notebook and pencil at the ready. 

Mycroft is still so mad he’s struggling to form words. I’m actually starting to feel a bit sorry for him. 

Through the pandemonium I can hear my phone going again. It’s her tone. 1970s Dr Who theme tune. I’ve been ignoring it/her all day. She can text and phone all she likes. Bloody Mary.

The phone’s in my hand now. 

Oh bugger it, I can’t keep this up. What does she want...Too late, missed it. 

My God, there are so many missed calls. And the texts!

“I need my car.”

“John, my go-bag is in the car, please bring it back.”

“John, my waters have broken.”

“I am not joking, John please come back.”

‘John, the pains have started.”

“I need you to drive me to the hospital, I’m in bloody labour!”

“Right, I am phoning an ambulance.”

“How dare you ignore me like this, John”

“You’re taking this too far now.”

“I’m on my way to St Thomas’s hospital. Meet me there. Bring my go-bag.”

“John, I am in a lot of pain now. Where are you, you bastard?” etc. etc.

Filled with dread, I check the times. These have been coming in all day, virtually sinced I slammed the front door this morning. In a mortified panic, I push past Mycroft and Holborn’s hoppos. Swerving the lift I take the stairs two at a time. Sherlock must have deserted too, he’s caught me up, concerned. I breathlessly put him in the picture as we cross reception, barging our way through an irritation of bumbling pensioners. 

Outside now, down too many steps onto the rainy street. I have my keys in my hand before I realise the car is still at the surgery. Shit, shit shit! Wait, I have my Oyster card somewhere here in my pocket - could get the C10 bus, that stops at St Thomas’s… Sherlock coolly strides out and raises his hand - as if by magic a cab pulls up. Thank God, he’s not lost his touch. As I climb into the back of the cab, he’s given instructions to the cabbie before I even get the chance to speak, passing him over a twenty pound note.

I wind down the window. I say “Thanks,” and he grabs for my hand, (his knuckles are a mess), his face looms in close.

“Good luck, John.” he says. With a pained smile, he holds onto me for a second, squeezes, lets me go. The cab pulls out into the wet rush hour traffic.

As the window slides closed the side view changes to grey, racing raindrops.

It felt a bit odd leaving Sherlock there on the pavement. Leaving him out of it. What the hell am I thinking. It’s not his baby. It is actually mine! Mine and Mary’s.

Oh God, what a childish arsehole I’ve been. I should have read her texts, answered her calls. She’s been trying to get hold of me all day. I assumed she just wanted another slanging match. I scroll back and forth. This is awful. What ever has gone on between us, she’s my wife and she’s pregnant for pity’s sake, I’m supposed to care. I do, I do. 

I hate myself. What’s wrong with me?

Of course Mary’s bad tempered, she’s hormonal, she’s needy. Due to have our first baby in a couple of weeks. Only she’s having it now - probably brought on by all the upset this morning and now I’ve, well I’ve seriously let her down. There isn’t an excuse for this one. No point phoning her now, I can see St Thomas’s Hospital, a big brown sugarlump of a building, just over the river. I’ll be there soon enough if this traffic will shift.

Jesus, I could be a father already! I’m not prepared for this, I’ve been doing other stuff - had my head somewhere else. This is massive and I’ve not given myself chance come to terms with any of it. This is actually happening. Now. Fatherhood. A lifetime responsibility. I want to make a decent job of it, too. Better than my dad was. I’ll be there for her, sensitive to her needs, supportive, dependable. I do this, I can make this work.

Well I’ve only got the rest of this journey to get my head round it all. 

Come on traffic lights!

I’ll give her quality time, make her my priority. 

I can do that.

Although so far I’ve failed spectacularly to do that for Mary. I’m a bloody useless husband. I can’t believe I ignored her - my pregnant wife, I avoided her all day because of a stupid argument. (I think the cabbie is talking at me. I’m going to ignore him now instead. Jerk).

We’re in the thick of rush hour...

I don’t even feel as though I’m Mary’s husband if I’m honest. I’m not sure she expects or even wants that of me. It’s enough for her if we pretend convincingly. I play her ‘husband’ in the game of her life. Yes, roleplay, that’s all Mary knows, Bloody Mary, queen of faking it…. what’s real, what’s not real, I never know. Will the real Mary Watson please stand up! Here I go again. Come on, got to rein it in. Don’t be a bastard, be nice now for Christ’s sake, man. What is the matter with me? Christ.

The traffic has ground to a halt and St Thomas’s Hospital entrance is near enough. I bail out out of the cab and dash towards the entrance. Immediately my hair is wet through. I pass the smokers in the porch, go through the automatic doors and follow the arrows through a pastel-coloured labyrinth of disinfected corridors. Straight on, turn right, right again, more doors...‘Maternity Reception’. Good. 

A cheerful staff nurse labelled ‘Clare’ taps on a keyboard and finds Mary Watson’s whereabouts for me. 

“Room 207. Birthing partners only in the delivery suite.” She looks up at me just as a last drop of rain plops from my hair to my cheek. I must look a bit pathetic.

“Yes, I’m her husband. I’m John Watson.” 

“Oh, okay, fine, follow me.” She smiles at me, kindly. I don’t know if it’s pity. 

I have no idea what I’m walking into here. The baby might have arrived by now. Mary been in labour all day afterall. On her own. In pain. 

I check my phone. No more messages. I bet she’s had it by now.

Clare leads me down 300 yards of non-slip floor covering. She has wonderfully smooth dark-skin, nice calves, an hourglass figure. Her ample, round arse swishes from side to side in her uniform as she walks. Two good handfuls. It’s mesmerising. Even in those hideous white Crocs, I could follow her all day. 

We halt outside room 207. Clare is smiling at me, explaining something “ Once mum and baby are up on the ward, visitors must stick to strict visiting times 2-3 in the afternoons and 6-7 in the evenings that’s not including the father of course!” blah, blah, blah she goes as I open the door to enter. The second I step in, a missile comes hurtling at face. I duck in time and it hits the door with a thud. Mary has just broken her mobile phone.


	3. Room 207

Mary is not an average woman, it is fair to say. She doesn’t behave, well, normally. She has a bit of a track record on that. Expectant mothers that I’ve seen often have had drugs such as pethidine during their labour. They’re generally a little spaced out, relaxed, subdued. Not Mary. Framed dramatically by a window of torrential rain, she stands over the far side of the bed, her hands support her on the mattress. Her eyes are on me like a big cat. Mary is a predator about to pounce.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” No pause for an answer, this is going to be a tirade:  
“I texted you 37 times, I’ve tried calling you on your mobile and at the surgery, you’ve been ignoring me all day you bastard. You knew I was in pain, you knew you were needed and where were you? Where were you? No, let me guess, ah, now would I be right in saying you were with your best friend Sherlock bloody Holmes riding around in MY car, chasing about on wild goose chases looking for James Moriarty who was supposed to be DEAD and probably is but you don’t know because typically you can’t figure it out. You chose to do that instead of being HERE with ME and you KNEW John Watson that I was having this baby today and it just wasn’t important enough for you was it? Because I’M not important enough.” 

She looks down in horror at my empty hands, “And where’s my go-bag that I specifically asked you for?”

She means the little overnight bag for her hospital stay. I don’t know why she calls it that. It’s stupid.

“Look, it’s in the car and the car is back at the surgery, I only got your tex-”

“Brilliant! One thing I asked you for! One fucking thing and you can’t even do that for me. What are you even here for, John? Why did you bother coming at all?”

“Because you’re having our baby..”

“Wrong. I’M having MY baby. YOU are irrelevant to me from now on so why don’t you just do what you want to do: PISS OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE!”

“I’m not irrelevant, Mary, I’m the father.” trying to stay calm. She’s not in her right frame of mind, she’s all hormones.

“That’s where you’re wrong yet again. John. You can’t puzzle anything out on your own, can you? This baby isn’t even yours, you bloody fool… AAAGGGHHH!” 

Her face contorts, she swings her backside to and fro. Her body is wracked by the radiating pain of an oncoming contraction. I wonder how far apart they are. 

She roars as she throws back her head, transcending to the peak of agony. The wall of grey rain thunders down behind her. It looks and sounds like the end of the world in here. 

A midwife goes to rub Mary’s back. I should do that, I want to do something to help. I start to walk towards her but Mary raises her head and looks at me threateningly. She snarls, her face is wet: 

“Don’t. You. Touch me. You have no right. Just get out! Get out and stay away from me or God help me I will do what I should have done a long time ago: wipe you off the face of the earth! AAAGGHHH!” Her head lunges towards the bed as I back off.

Clare looks genuinely alarmed as she takes my elbow and hurries me towards the door 

“I think it’s better if you perhaps got a coffee or something?” 

I have to ask: “Is this normal, this… reaction? Do you get that a lot in here?”

“I don’t even know if she’s had any drugs, I’d have to check the chart. She refused them earlier. There’s a hospital cafe just down there, I will come and get you when, well, when there is any development.” 

Back in the delivery room, Mary’s yelling at me intelligibly again. The contraction is obviously subsiding: “Go on, leave me! Get out! You selfish, idiotic little man!” She’s tearful, she’s hysterical. I’m going.

Clare looks apologetic for some reason. It’s hardly her fault. Pointing to the door of 207, I tell her quite seriously, “For Christ’s sake keep objects away from her, Clare. She’s...she’s a bloody good shot.”

Dazed, I walk alone down the corridor towards the cafe. This really wasn’t how I’d pictured it. The birth of my first child.


	4. St Thomas’s Cafe

A mint green sanctuary of calm. The welcoming aroma of fresh coffee and baked potatoes. Stainless steel counters and brown plastic trays. I’ve been here before, thinking about it. 

I should buy something. Some cash in my pocket: cheese baguette, crisps, pot of tea. I’m probably in this for the long haul... 

What the hell just happened in there? I was ready for her to be, well, annoyed with me. Fair enough. I deserve that. And she’s in labour, she’s probably anxious, definitely in pain, first baby, overwhelming for her, understandable. I get all that. But why would she say that they baby isn’t mine? What would be the point in saying that to me. Particularly now. Why say something as hurtful as that? 

Unless it was true.

Truth is a major sticking point in our relationship. She’s lied to me from day one. Sold herself to me as one person then promptly turned into another. Even before our major problems started, actually as soon as we were married I started to see another side to her. She’s a billboard with not enough glue, the layers peel off. I wonder how many layers there are to Mary.

That’s the root of the problem. It’s not as though I’m not prepared to try to forgive and forget, I am, really; it’s just that I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be forgiving. When I took her back I felt like I’d let a stranger into my life. I know it’s partly my fault, I haven’t given her much of a chance. We’re not together much. That’s not her fault. It’s mine.

Perhaps I’m still too pissed off with her.

Perhaps I’d rather be somewhere else.

Although apart from today (obviously), she doesn’t seem to mind that I’m generally elsewhere.  
So maybe that’s not the real problem. I just don’t know...

When the baby needs the spare room for a nursery, do I get to sleep with her again, I wonder. Play ‘mummies and daddies?’ I would have to court her, seduce her all over again. After everything that’s happened I can’t picture that... 

Why would she say the baby isn’t mine?

On the overhead TV, the news channel rolls along in silence. There’s a reporter outside Tate Britain, now that same photograph of Jim Moriarty. That was quick. His name’s dropped into every news bulletin these days. As far as the news journalists are concerned any crime in London ‘could’ be something to do with that dead lunatic. Public fear sells newspapers. He’s getting ‘hits’, He’s ‘trending’. You could say it’s the perfect media storm. His demonic little Irish head is everywhere you look and it sickens me.

Greg’s face now fills the screen. There’s subtitles: he’s explaining it was a foiled robbery attempt. Looks like he’s taking the credit. Sherlock won’t mind but it narks me a bit. 

I must catch up with some blogging. It’s not a chore, I enjoy it. But everything’s been so hectic. I’m neglecting it. Sherlock says that I ‘romanticise’. But he has no idea the effort I make to ‘un-romanticise’. There has to be a balance. I try to explain to him, “People want a story, not a lab report.” He doesn’t understand. He pokes his nose in now and again with some technical nit-picking but generally he lets me get on with it.

And here he is now. In the flesh. Sherlock strides into the cafe, folds down his collar and fusses with his wet, curly hair. _It’s okay, Sherlock, you still look cool (you vain git)._ Spotting me in the far diagonal corner, he glides my way, his slight frame swooping through the tables. The whole room is changed. He sits down on the opposite chair, pinches a cup from a neighbouring table - remarkably they don’t seem to notice, and helps himself to tea from my pot. It’s nice to see him. 

“Everything go okay at the Tate, with Mycroft, the police and everything? I was just watching it on the news.” I nod to the TV behind him.

“Yes, fine. There was a security breach, but it was in fact one of the museum’s own employees, pocketing some Turner sketches. Trying to settle a gambling debt. No Moriarty connection. Dull really.” He examines his knuckles. “Anyway, he’s in custody at A & E. He’s a bit scuffed up apparently. Don’t worry It won’t be a problem for you, John. They have it all on camera: self defence. You will have to make a statement though.”

“Oh, right, of course.” Another one.

“So. No baby then, yet, I take it.” He says, looking around, apparently expecting to see one. “Why are you in here, anyway, why aren’t you with Mary, mopping her brow or whatever it is you’re supposed to do?” 

“Because she told me to get out. She’s really pissed off with me. She actually told me that the baby’s not mine.”

It’s gone eerily quiet. Sherlock has stopped stirring his tea.

“Ah.”

“What? Ah what? What does that mean? Sherlock? Sherlock?” He’s not looking at me. He’s looking down at his tea. A black wave of realisation comes over me.

“It’s true isn’t it? She’s been having an affair. She’s been having an affair and you knew.” I say it quietly. I am barely holding onto control. My heart rate's gone up, chest tightens, heat rises to my cheeks. This isn’t happening. “So, did she tell you? Did Mary tell you?”

He looks up into my eyes now, he seems a little ashamed. “I have been monitoring David Stiles her ex-boyfriend since we were planning the wedding. It seems they never formally broke it off. He’s besotted by Mary but has never really wanted commitment. Despite your marriage they carried on with their... liaisons. He’s been around a lot lately.”

I am dumbfounded. Bloody priceless. She wanted the car. Of course. It makes sense.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Sherlock?”

He looks across at me earnestly: “I thought it would be kinder.” He’s watching my face for reactions and he can see straight away that he made the wrong call. This sort of thing always confuses him. 

“No, Sherlock, that is not kind. Not kind at all. I needed to know. I…” (breathe) “I need to know who I’m married to, I need to know if that baby my wife is carrying might not be mine. Surely you understand that.”

“It’s not yours.”

“What, definitely? You know that for sure?”

My world slips sideways as he starts going into signs of ovulation, calendar entries, social networking messages, cases when we were out of town and I don’t want to hear anymore, I’m reeling.

“I’m sorry, John. I thought you’d rather not know.”

Does he really think I am so eager… so desperate to play ‘happy families’ that I would go along with such a deception as that? Surely to God….But this is Sherlock. I can see I’m going to have to make something clear. Spell it out.

“Sherlock, with everything that has happened to me. Knowing how these things have affected me in the past. You, my best friend. You of all people must promise me to always be honest with me. Please, Sherlock, even if you think I might not want to hear it, I’d always rather have the truth. For God’s sake, whatever you do, please don’t ever keep things from me again.”

He blinks across the table. He now looks a little fearful. He looks thoroughly chastised. He’s taken this in, I think. Biting his lip, nodding.

In the mental maelstrom, a question emerges: “So you know when you told me we could trust Mary, what did that mean exactly?”

“Well she’s not going to kill either of us John. She’s had ample opportunity and hasn’t done it so far.” I’m about to point out the obvious exception to this when we are rudely interrupted by the theme tune to ‘Rhubarb and Custard’. That’s Sherlock’s ringtone for his brother. We relieved the boredom on a stake-out the other day by assigning comic ringtones to our contacts. Mainly kids’ old TV themes. Well it was hilarious at the time.

Sherlock whips his phone from his pocket. Puts it to his ear. 

“What now?….At St Thomas’s Hospital with John...How urgent?.... Who?...”

Something else has obviously come up. It’s been like this for weeks. 

“No I don’t... Seriously I don’t….Who is Kate Middleton?” He rises from his chair and covers the mouthpiece. “Sorry John, got to go.” He backs away, winks at me affectionately. 

I’m thinking: _“Please take me with you.”_

I’m saying...nothing. 

I just watch him turn with a flourish of his coat, tug up his collar, shove his hands in his pockets and he is gone.

I sit with an empty tea pot and a heavy heart. I want a proper drink.

Silent tinnitus. My mind goes offline. 

 

When I can think again, my unobservant brain comes under a heavy bombardment of evidence: How her attitude changed when we got back from honeymoon, the months we were separated - what was she doing then? She never said, really; the fresh flowers that just appear in the house - who buys those? I never asked... And thinking about it, when I come home she never enquires where I’ve been (in case I ask her the same thing, I imagine); Then there’s the fact I’m in the sodding spare room of course! I can see it all now, she just wanted a ‘husband’, a father for her child. There’s me with my grand gesture of taking her back. I’ve been a fool. 

People are walking about with trays, money clatters into the cash register, A bloke on crutches swigs an energy drink. Life goes on around me. I turn and gawp blankly at the muted TV. Try to focus on something... A newsflash ticker runs around the bottom of the screen: “Reports are coming in that a member of the royal family has been abducted from the Sandringham Estate in Norfolk, more details to follow.”


	5. Mary III

Scene 5 Mary III  
It’s been three hours exactly. Several pots of tea and the relentless carousel of TV news for company. I feel very up to speed with world events but am still completely in the dark about Mary (normal). 

No sign of Clare or anyone else for that matter. 

I ought to go and find out what’s happening. 

Hardly anyone about at all now, actually. 

It’s getting late. The shutters clatter downwards at the cafe counter. 

Sod it. If I sit any longer I’ll be checking myself in here with DVT. 

I make my way back down the corridor to room 207. I pause at the door (on the alert for projectiles this time). My left hand is flexing, can’t manage the door handle, have to use the other hand. The lights are dimmed. There’s my wife. Alone in an elevated hospital bed, holding onto an entonox mask, breathing in deeply and noisily. I watch her from a distance. I can’t find anything I want to say to her as she lolls her red, sweaty face in my direction. She stares at me unfocused like a fish. I just watch her for a while. I feel a bit sorry for her. Whoever the hell this creature is.

I go to the chart at the foot of her bed and start reading. This can’t be right, it says she is in her 41st week - a week late. But she’s two weeks early. At leasts that’s what she told me. I don’t understand, we had a scan. A brusque, rather plump midwife swoops into the room, pulls the clipboard from my hands, whispering: “Baby’s not sitting properly”.  
I explain I’m a doctor and can handle a bit more information than that. It turns out that the baby has a persistent posterior presentation. It’s wedged in the pelvic area of the birth canal. Thank you. Well that’s not good. Mary is exhausted, the baby is distressed and they are considering giving her a C section. The midwife takes the vitals, updates the notes, rustles off, leaving us alone again.

Mary pulls down the entonox mask. She wants to say something to me. Her voice is dry, raspy, difficult to understand. So I walk nearer, bring my face in close to hers. She grips on to the front of my jacket, she speaks very carefully and slowly: “I should have killed you, John.”


	6. Westminster Bridge

Someone high up (Mycroft probably) must have cancelled Winter this year. We’ve only had one decent frost and no snow whatsoever. It’s February now with nothing but grey skies: there are just days when it rains and days when it doesn’t. 

I’ve already walked as far as Westminster Bridge when I remember which sort of day today is. Less biblical than earlier, the cold, wet onslaught persists into the night, makes rivers of the gutters. Heads down, Londoners without umbrellas scurry for cover. I’m just going to get drenched. It seems fitting. I probably deserve it. Cold rain pours miserably from the tip of my nose, my hair, down the back of my neck. I turn up the collar on my three quarter length wool coat (Sherlock would have some comment if he could see me doing this). It doesn’t much help.

Big Ben. It’s 10.30. Westminster Palace looks at it’s best at night. They light it very theatrically in white and gold. It reflects in the Thames like a row of giant candles.

The London Eye is lit up too. It’s watching me now, crossing the river - getting bloody soaked. 

I wonder if I’m a father yet. No. I’m not. Oh yeah, that’s right. The baby’s not mine. Neither is the mother, come to that. I left the delivery room, I just walked out. Left her to it.  
Unbelievable. I just walked out on my wife while she was in labour. 

‘My wife’. What the hell does that mean.

There was a time when Mary was everything I needed her to be. The long walks we’d have by the canal. Sometimes she’d bring a picnic. She was such a good listener. Sympathetic. She was funny and confident, too. I loved her - it was easy. We’d hold hands everywhere. She saved my sanity and helped me believe that there was something worth sticking around for. Mary was my sanity. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. That’s why I married her.  
Perhaps it was the marriage that changed her. Or the pregnancy. Perhaps she felt trapped with the wrong bloke. Sarcastic smirks where there’d been warm smiles before. She lost her patience with me all the time, never laughed at my jokes, made me feel...tolerated. But that was a lie too. She was living a life I never would have guessed of her. She was moonlighting. Leading a double life. As an assassin. Of course I didn’t see it - how could I have guessed. How could anyone envisage that? And one night she nearly took Sherlock from me, she almost…. Yet I took her back...

As for this new incarnation, I can’t even get my head round this. Tonight has really knocked me for six: the ‘wife’ I’ve got now is a deranged, two-timing bitch, who’s been passing off her unborn baby as mine. Wishing me dead! Why did she want to come back to me if that’s how she felt? She can’t possibly love me. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. 

Westminster Tube Station. That’s where you can break into Sumatra Road Station. Hardly anyone knows that. It’s one of London’s secrets. That’s the thing with this city, with my life generally - always so much going on beneath the surface. So many secrets...

I thought I was going to die with Sherlock down there. Bodies ripped apart, crushed under the rubble of the House of Lords, never to be found. Pounds and pounds of explosives, no way of deactivating the device. I expected to die. The bastard fooled me (again). Set it up. So he could beg for my forgiveness for the ‘hurt he’d caused me’. He has no idea... He made me watch him take his own life. I’ve relived it so many times. His wrist still warm in my hand but no pulse. His eyes staring blankly at the sky, the blood on his face in his hair, on the pavement. His blood pooling. Every time I closed my eyes that image was there. 

It was meant to be suicide. Then left me for two years try to figure out why. 

Me, being typical me, I had never told him he had a friend. 

The months off work, in therapy - the nightmares, the drinking.... Except it wasn’t real. It was a stunt. A cruel, heroic stunt. Surely there could have been another way. I could have helped, perhaps. Christ. The word ‘hurt’ doesn’t cover it, Sherlock, it really doesn’t. But he couldn’t know that. How could he possibly know how I would have felt.

When he begged me though - I know that was real. There was just the two of us down there in that carriage: no one to laugh at the punchline. In those eyes I saw genuine, desperate remorse. I wasn’t going to end it like that. So I told him how well I regarded him. Yes of course I forgave him. I’m not good with these situations but he got me to say that.

Nothing exploded, nothing destroyed, we’d made our peace down there. We’d found our way out of that hole…

Thank God he turned it into a joke so we wouldn’t feel awkward - ha, he knows me.

Bastard.

Mary has never apologised to me for anything, thinking about it. None of her incarnations have. Not for stepping on my foot or leaving the teabag in. Not even for almost shooting dead my best friend. Nothing. I’m just supposed to cope with her misdemeanours. It all becomes my problem.


	7. Birdcage Walk

I’m on Birdcage Walk when I realise my shoes aren’t actually waterproof. I don’t even know where I’m going but I feel as though I have escaped from something. Aimless but determined, I just keep going.

It’s Saturday tomorrow. I don’t have a surgery shift until Monday afternoon. So I don’t have to go home tonight either. 

I could spend the night at Baker Street. It might distract me from my fucked up home life. Sherlock will probably be enthusing about his new case, jumping around, excited. I’ll be the sounding board, (hopefully I’ll unknowingly say something that inspires - tends to happen). 

This new case is really high profile. The kidnapping of the Duchess of Cambridge, on her holidays in Sandringham. Audacious, unthinkable. A ransom of £400 million. Dreadful business. It’s also quite thrilling. I’m missing this. I want to get involved. They brought Sherlock in at the very start of the investigation. Unusual. The problem is all their best agents have been working with the Met, obsessing over Moriarty, trying to link him to cases, join the dots. It’s all an exercise in saving face. The huge media coverage hasn’t helped. So meanwhile, the future Queen of England gets abducted out in Norfolk. It’s caught them all off guard. Clever. Perhaps this is to do with Moriarty. It’s been suggested.

But no, Sherlock said that Moriarty’s dead. He shook Sherlock’s right hand on the rooftop while he was blowing his own brains out with his left. They must have been standing quite close together for that to be possible. Sherlock won’t have been mistaken. 

Hello. Pick your head up, Watson. Don’t walk into that tree. I’ve not even had a drink. This looks a bit like the gates to St James’s Guard. It is. The Bloody Guardsman! Looks different, though. The world’s always different at night.

All the new recruits that must have walked across that threshold over the years. Young, fit bodies trained, skilled, ready to take arms for Queen and country. Such high principles, such proud parents and no idea what the fuck they are getting themselves into...

Sherlock and me sat together on that bench before the wedding. Mary said I should talk to him. So I had it all rehearsed. I nice reassuring speech. Things between us will be just the same, Mary’s not a threat. 

Well look how that turned out. Not that he was listening anyway.

He picked the story of the Bloody Guardsman for his wedding speech. Surprising. The way he told it was rather touching. He put across my contribution in a very flattering way - bordering on the sentimental (and he says that I like to romanticize! Aha! I’ll remind him of that). No, it was lovely.

I hugged him that day. I think he wanted to hug me back but he’s not that sort of person. Not a hugger. He sort of leaned in, instead. Endearing. That’s Sherlock’s hug now. That’s the best he can do. He’s done that with me a couple of times since. Funny...

I’ve seen him hug other people properly though, it can’t be an autistic thing. Occasionally he’ll hug Mrs Hudson, his parents... I’m his best friend...why can’t he hug me?...

It must be pretty late. Why am I still walking? Check the time: 11.15 oh, and a missed call from Greg five minutes ago. Funny, I didn’t hear ‘Here Comes Bod’. He’s obviously still up and about, so I phone him back:

“Greg. Did you want me for something? If it’s about my statement, can it wait until tomorrow?”

“No, it’s fine, there’s no rush for that, John, I just thought I would have heard from you by now.”

“About what?”

“Well Is it time to wet the baby’s head then, or what?”

“Er, I don’t know. I’m not actually at the hospital, she threw me out. Didn’t want me there, said something that sounded like she wanted to kill me.” Might as well tell him the truth. He’s laughing.

“My second wife was pretty nasty when she was in labour with Jessica. Hang on in there, soldier, she’ll be all loved up as soon as that baby pops out!” 

Yeah, right.

Then I remember he knows Mary even less than I do.


	8. Belgravia

You get to a stage when you can’t get any wetter. You can always get colder and colder until your body eventually freezes to death but wetness has it’s limits. What would be the saturation point of a gentleman’s three quarter length wool jacket for example? Sherlock would know. I’d say it was about an hour ago.

Well I’ve got my Oyster card on me, I should find a tube to take me to a dry bed for the night. That would be the sensible thing to do. 

It’s 11.30 in Belgravia. Pubs and restaurants front onto the street, cosy and warm. Serving bitter on draught, brandy, a nice rum and black… I can’t. 

Rain pours off their ‘A’ boards: “Curry Nite”, “Two for One”, “Book for Valentine’s Day.” Couples sit at tables in the windows. There’s mood lighting “I’ll get a candle, it’ll be more romantic.” Couples. Couples are everywhere. 

Why does Sherlock never correct people who assume we’re a couple? He loves correcting people. Pointing out stupidity. He says ‘idiot’ like it’s a term of endearment. I’ve stopped contradicting now as well. I just ignore them like he does. No big deal. They don’t really know us or care. Silly really, though, we’re obviously not together as such. We’re just good friends. 

We don’t have sex or anything. 

Is that how you define a ‘couple?’ 

I don’t have sex with Mary, either.

Stucco fronts and portico entrances. It’s of SW1 on a wet Friday night in February. Very upmarket round here. Very select. Irene Adler’s territory. ‘The Woman.’ She said Sherlock and I were a couple. I tried to tell that that’s not the way it is. It’s not that she didn’t believe me, more that she knew better than me. She rates herself as a bit of an expert in knowing ‘what people like’. It’s her profession. Perhaps she must have got the wrong end of the stick somehow. Sherlock was listening in on that conversation. We never mentioned it. Awkward. 

I did think, though that she and him had a bit of a thing going. Maybe, maybe not. I hope not. She was trouble. Then again...

Why the fuck am I here? I’m nowhere near a tube that would take me to Baker Street. Damn. There’s no way I’m standing in the rain waiting for a night bus. My trousers are stuck to my legs and I’m freezing. Fuck it. This is crazy, I’m getting a cab.


	9. Travelodge

The cab driver insisted that I sat on a sheet of polythene. That was fair enough. What was decidedly not fair was my complete lack of money with which to pay him. A fact that I only discovered after he’d driven me across town. Either I’d been pickpocketed, (possible) or the last of my cash must have gone on tea and snacks at the hospital. 

My wallet’s in the glove compartment of the car - which is at the surgery. Well this is embarrassing. Today has gone really well. It’s going in the book of bloody classics. I’ll have to borrow some money from Sherlock to pay the driver. I ask him to wait.

Letting myself into 221B I am halfway up the stairs when Mrs H appears in the hallway in her dressing gown and slippers. “Oh, it’s you John, dear. I wondered who it was. What are you doing here so late?”

“Mrs Hudson, do you mind if I sleep in my old room tonight? Mary and I, we’ve had a bit of a row.”

She looks troubled, wrings her hands, “Well normally I’d say yes but please don’t think bad of me John, I've let another gentleman have your room for a few weeks. I didn’t think you would be needing it again, what with Mary and the baby and everything.”

I feel affronted. I have no right to.

“Who, sorry? Who's in my room?” Sherlock didn’t say.

“He's a builder, Karl something. He’s Eastern European from Croatia, I think. He's going to do some jobs for me.” She adds brightly: “He speaks very good English.” 

As if that solves everything.

Right.

I squelch my way up the remaining stairs.

She calls after me: “Sherlock stopped by earlier and picked up some things. He’s gone off in a car with Mycroft they were talking about Sandringham. Not that I was listening, I just…”

I might be rolling my eyes at this point. Fantastic. No-one’s in.  
“You’re wet through, John! Is it raining? Are you going to wait for Sherlock?”

“Yes, yes and yes. Thanks Mrs Hudson, I’ll do that. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, John.”

I go into the familiar sitting room of 221B. That’s all I can do. Just wait. Wait! Bugger. I’ve not paid the driver, he’s still waiting outside with the meter running. I’ve got no money.

Sherlock’s debit card is in Billy-the-skull on the mantlepiece. I go down and pay the cab driver. He too wishes me a cheery ‘goodnight’ as I slam the front door behind me.

\--------------------

Shivering and wretched I take in the familiar surroundings of 221B but find no comfort. A blanket of despair is trying to wrap around me, I know how this goes. But I’m not having it. I know the drill, all the techniques. Need to focus on the practical. Job 1: Get out of these wet things.

With the turn of a chrome knob I put my faith in the restorative properties of indoor plumbing. My clothes drip from a hanger, my gun rests on the toilet seat. Jets of comforting warm water rush onto my icy flesh. Circulation is back. 

Heady masculine fragrances of sandalwood and cedar fill the warm fog as the soap suds race down my body. Like a devotee, I face up into the hot torrent. It batters my features, takes my air. When I open my eyes, steam has obscured the real world from view. Good. 

Wearing only a towel, I borrow Sherlock’s dressing gown from the back of his bedroom door. The sitting room is cold. Hanging my clothes on the mantleshelf to dry, I put a match to the fire, laid ready in the grate. There’s just me, the fire and the sound of the weather outside. It’s messy in this flat. No one has cleaned up. There’s stuff everywhere but at the same time it feels empty. 

I thought coming here would feel like coming home but I’ve honestly felt more at home in a Travelodge. 

This one’s going to be a large whiskey. 

On the wall behind the sofa is a flow chart of news cuttings, photographs, items printed from the internet. He’s making sense of something. In my exhausted state I can’t follow his train of thought but it looks like something to do with Moriarty: locations, possible sightings etc. There’s a post-it at the end of every lead, each with the same word: “DEAD.  
DEAD. DEAD. DEAD. DEAD. So he’s checked. He’s definitely dead then. That’s what he’d thought. Well that’s a relief. Good. No mystery there for us. 

I pace about. 

This is good whiskey. I wish he was here, sharing a drink with me. Telling me about the new case. It would be nice, distracting. But he’s not. I don’t know when he’s coming back. I’ll leave him to it for now, he’ll be busy. Text him later...

Turn on the TV news: still going on about the kidnapping. I already know all about that. No new developments. So I just record it in case Sherlock needs it for reference. 

So.

There’s an ipod in the speaker. I’ll just press play. _Yes, whatever was on last will do, please._

Quick top-up, crash into my old chair next to the fire (opposite nobody). 

Oh! I know this track. This is Sherlock on the violin playing the waltz he wrote for the wedding. That really wasn’t all that long ago. Look what has happened since. Ours was an incredible, remarkable wedding day. She looked so beautiful…..

It felt a bit clunky dancing with Mary on the night though actually. We could both waltz, that was no problem, we knew the steps but….we probably should’ve practised together beforehand. We should have done that. Neither of us thought to do that.

Sherlock had insisted I learnt to dance. He threw himself into planning that bloody wedding as if it was his own. He got a bit obsessed. Every detail. Perfection. He asked me how much dancing I’d done in the past. I said, “Does marching up and down the parade ground count?” 

He looked at me in that way he does when I’m clueless, so that’s what started it. Two or three evenings a week. Me providing the wine, him providing the take-away. After dinner we’d close the curtains, push back the furniture and put on the playlist. It didn’t seem all that strange to be dancing with my best friend - I suppose because, well he’s Sherlock. He had to put his hands on me of course, (he was okay with that), moving with the music. Waltzes, mainly. Dancing in our socks on the oak flooring. Often he’d be wearing his pyjamas, his dressing gown flowing about him like a lady’s party frock.

I could have guessed Sherlock was a dancer just by the way he carries himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done ballet at that posh school of his, too. Dancing with other boys, no doubt. Perhaps they did swan lake? 

He reminds me of a swan. Very graceful, very white. He’s sort of part swan, part snake, part human being, if that makes sense. Ah yes, track 2. I remember the name of it.. wait… Khachaturian Masquerade Waltz...how very apt.

I wasn’t allowed to look at my feet, had to maintain eye contact with Sherlock all the while, that was the rule. He told me: “Keep your eyes fixed on me…” The words took me by surprise. Cut me like a knife. He saw it. He doesn’t miss a lot, though. I know he felt bad. He rephrased it: “Look up at my face, John...” We kept going.

Some old injuries are always going to be painful… 

I’ll buy him some more whiskey to replace this.

The hypnotic appeal of dancing with someone came as a complete revelation to me. Once I’d mastered the steps the music just carried us - we were like two leaves floating on a river. I led him, his waist under one hand, the other hand held his up here… 1,2,3….A natural synchronicity, intoxicating sound and rhythm. Our gazes all the time fixed on each other - that’s an intimacy that might be crossing a line in a conventional friendship... But we’ve been through a lot together. We’re not just friends… I don’t know what we are. 

I think he just wanted to be sure I had it all perfect, we had a lot of these practice nights. The last time felt a bit like saying ‘goodbye’.

Mary knew I was with Sherlock. She never delved any deeper. So I didn’t tell her. She obviously had other things on her mind. Well, I know she did, now. We’re both liars.

I made a cheap crack about our ‘secret’ dancing lessons at the wedding, when Sherlock was with us. I don’t know why I did that, he said something and I just felt exposed, I panicked. I’m not proud of that. I think I hurt him. He looked so...betrayed. I don’t want to think about it.

Just half a tumbler this time... 

Track 3 Jazz Suite No.2 by … I can’t remember. Some Russian. I love this one...sweeping round the room like this...one-two-three, one-two-three. Height difference not a problem, perfect actually. His face so serious, the column of his swan neck… one-two-three, one-two-three... fluid, dream-like... the two of us high on music, our secret pleasure...guilty secret...

Spinning, revolving, is it me or the room?...

Why did I tell her everything about me when I know fuck all about her? That’s not right, is it? She said a couple ought to know about each other's history. But she didn’t tell me anything. Not ‘til she was found out. Then she chucks me a memory stick. Warns me I might not want to know. 

But she asked me and so I told her about all the encounters I’d had, the ones that stuck around for a while (until it got boring or Sherlock), every one night stand, the masseuse with her ‘extras’ I even told her about James Sholto for Christ’s sake. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about James Sholto. It started in the desert. He’d look at me that way... I was flattered, curious I wanted it. Wanted him. Bastion’s heat and dust was outside, injuries, horrors of war were outside. We escaped into another world as often as we could - the single bed in his cool, white iso-container. It was thrilling, addictive and (for me at least) an education: pushing against each others bodies, raw passion, kissing, biting, tasting... We were reckless sometimes but we never got caught. He was the one risking his career, he was the Commanding Officer, (that was part of the thrill, I think).

He liked the fact I’m a doctor. It turned him on, he told me. Some people go for that. Doctors and nurses. I think medicine’s is a great leveller really, a bit like war. Diseases, injuries, they don’t respect rank. They’re all just bodies. They’d all come to me, their doctor, tell me how they felt and I’d know what to do to take care of them, I’d deal with them, take command.  
I don’t command anything now. I don’t even get to sleep in my own fucking bed...

Keep going, Watson, keep dancing, dancing in this room, at Baker Street like the wedding never happened, one-two-three-one-two-three, round and round the floor, moving to the music, like no-one got shot, like my life is still okay, like I’m not falling apart. No, don’t get emotional. Stop it. Swallow it back. Get a grip. Just go with the music, go to a ‘happy place’...

The playlist finishes. The bottle’s empty. That’s me done. No sign of him coming back yet. I’m still alone. Everything’s spinning, I’m knackered, spent. 

The fire’s still going. I’ll have to stay here tonight. I’m in no state.

The spare blanket barely covers me on the narrow settee. I’m not that comfy but I’ve slept on worse I suppose. 

The sitting room looks massive from down here. The ceiling steadily revolves.

Check: no messages. Send a quick text: “I’m at the flat. Hope the case is going well. Catch up tomorrow.” _Come back, I miss you._

It’s offically been one of the shittest days on record.


	10. Leon

Ouch! That really hurts! 

Move to onto my side. 

Shit! No, that really hurts too. 

Damn my shoulder! 

There’s nowhere to put it! 

Time check: 05:30. 

I feel as though I’ve been run over by a tank. I’m getting up.

My legs don’t want to move, my tongue’s a strip of velcro. Christ, how much did I drink?

Got to move. Got to get the kettle on. Need tea. 

Our new neighbour is already up and about I can hear him pottering about upstairs. He’s an early riser, then. Perhaps he’s a postman or a milkman or something. He’d better not use our bathroom.

While the kettle boils I peep into Sherlock’s room. No sign of him so he’s obviously still out on the case. Without me. 

Put the TV on quietly and wait for the early news update. My head’s banging.

No milk in the fridge (predictably), but plenty of what looks like an entire dismembered cadaver sealed up in 10 or more clear ziplock bags. I’m not having that. He needs to clean this out. Most of this was in here a couple of weeks ago, there’s been no time for experiments lately, this is old stuff. Needs chucking out. 

Whilst the tea is brewing, I bag up the ‘spare parts’ in a black bag. I can nip these to Bart’s incinerator later on. There’s everything here! A putrid section of colon, a stiff elbow joint, a slice of femur, a foot, a whole pancreas... Last to go in is the hideous, sallow head. It tumbles in heavily like a macabre bowling ball. _‘Bloody hell, Sherlock. I have not missed this.’_  
Better tie the bag up really well. And give the fridge a good wipe out.

Once I’ve cleared out the dead body, it turns out that there is no actual food in the fridge. Nothing edible whatsoever. Looking around the room, there aren’t any usable work surfaces in here either. 

_‘Oh Sherlock this isn’t even a kitchen anymore, it’s a biomedical science lab.’_ The table and worktops are full of boiling flasks, test tube racks, petri dishes full of gunk. There’s three, no four bunsen burners out. 

Well I’ve dealt with the fridge, he can sort this lot out. I don’t know what he’s doing with it all. Mrs Hudson’s right, he’s worse than a student. 

Tescos on Marylebone Road opens at 06:00, I’ll go shopping. Stock up.

On the TV screen there’s a photo of The Duchess of Cambridge on horseback taken the day before yesterday. Press ‘Record.’

A concerned looking female reporter in a fuschia coat talks into a hand-mike: “Police are concentrating their efforts on ports and airports, the kidnapper has repeated the ransom demand for £400 million with a deadline of Monday 2pm, we’ll keep you updated.” 

Yeah, updates: I check my phone. No news from the hospital or from Sherlock. It’s early, though. 

One mug of hot, black tea later, I pull on my still-slightly-damp clothes. Time to head out into a dark February morning.

Today’s newspapers are being loaded onto the stands. Of course they’re all leading with the royal story. Plenty of nice pictures of the Duchess. She’s stunning. I know it’s a terrible situation but, well it does make a pleasant change from demonic Moriarty’s gaelic mush. I pick up a selection of every major newspaper adding them to the shopping trolley. Might be handy for research. 

Look at me, I’m here at the checkout with a load of random groceries. Why does my wife want to kill me? I don’t know what I’m buying or who its even for. I should probably dump half of this before its my turn... I can’t even think about going back to the house. Sherlock wouldn’t mind if I stayed but now Mrs Hudson’s rented my room out to that Karl character. Why didn’t Sherlock tell me? Do we need real coffee as well as instant? God, I don’t know. And I have to make some important decisions. Soon. I need to call St Thomas’s when I get back: talk to Mary. I add a £42 bottle of whiskey to the trolley. My pounding head is besieged by mental pop-ups. Text Sherlock: “Remind me, I owe you money.” I get cash back.

A stranger emerges from 221B as I approach, I believe I that’s our new neighbour. I go up and introduce myself. About 6’3”, balding head, a hooked nose, and a scar running down his left cheek. Reminds me of the bloke in that film “Leon”. The tosser just grunts in reply, looking me up and down like I’m shit. He closes the door so now I’m going to need to get my key out. _Cheers mate, we’re going to get on well, I can see that._

My eyes follow him as he hunches his shoulders into a long, grey overcoat and sods off down Baker Street. Ex-military. Fancies himself as a hard nut by the looks of it. I somehow doubt he’s a postman (or a milkman). Well he’d better not have used our bathroom.


	11. Laundry

“St Thomas’s Maternity department answers calls after 9 am. For emergencies, please dial 999. For all other enquiries, please call back after 9am or leave your message after the tone. Beeeep!”

I either go over there now in person or I wait and phone back later. 

It’s still really early. I probably smell of drink and I’m still hungover. Not good. I’ll wait. 

So. The fridge is clean, the shopping’s done and put away. 

Now what?

Find something to occupy my mind. 

So. Right then. The Duchess of Cambridge. Log onto Sherlock’s laptop. Print off the latest new reports from the internet, copying and print the newspaper articles, I gather everything I can find from media reports. If Moriarty really is dead, we need to find out who is behind it all and quickly. As it stands, there is apparently very little to go on. £400 million ransom for the future Queen of England. We’re told she was on holiday at the Sandringham Estate, out riding alone she was likely approached and threatened. At some stage she was ‘bundled into a dark coloured’ car, no make, no reg number. 

I’ve put yesterday’s socks on and they’re not quite dry. It feels horrible and it’s bad for my feet. Sherlock’s sock collection is neatly folded, placed in colour coded row in his top drawer. I pull on a pair of his nice black Wolsey’s and the world’s a better place.

Sherlock has the best room - he was here first I suppose. He keeps it tidy in here and it’s always lovely and warm. The boiler for the entire house is in the corner, venting out of his wall. It’s probably against building regulations to have a boiler in a bedroom but I suppose sleeping in here occasionally isn’t the most reckless thing he does with his life. 

His room’s so tropical he has the window slightly open all year round. He always sleeps with no clothes on. I think he walks around the flat bare-arsed quite a bit when I’m not around, I’ve seen him on Skype. Awkward talking to him when he does that, distracting. He knows it too. I think he does it for attention. He knows what he’s got. If there’s a chance someone else can see him I do insist he puts something on. He keeps his pyjamas for lounging round the house.

The window’s open now. The smell of bacon from the cafe’s extractor fan wafts up from the yard below. It mingles with a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. One of the kitchen staff must be taking a fag-break. The rest of London is waking up.

The laundry basket’s full, I could put a wash on, do my socks, too. I check the bedlinen, pushing my nose into the pillow and inhaling once, twice. It smells of Sherlock, of his posh cologne. There’s still a vague smell of detergent, too. It’s fine. It’s nice. Breathe it in again... no I think I’ll just wash the clothes. Funny, I’ve been with him every spare moment for the past few weeks. It’s a bit strange for us to be apart. I’m sure he’s not missing me at all. He’ll be talking away to me right now. In Norfolk. I hope I’m being helpful.

09:07 according to the mantle clock. Take out the little card in my trouser pocket with the phone number on. I dial St Thomas’s Hospital again. Engaged. Engaged. Engaged. Engaged. Engaged. Ringing: “Oh, hello, this is John Watson here, I’m enquiring about Mrs Mary Watson who came in to have her baby yesterday.”

“I’ll put you through to the ward.” so she’s had the baby. THE baby. Somebody else’s baby. not my baby. Stop it.

I’m holding….

“Ward 4 here, yes Mary has had the baby, a little girl, 8lbs 4oz mother and baby both doing well. Visiting hours are 2-3pm in the afternoons…”

“Yes, I know all that, thank you very much. Thank you.” Hang up.

Before I go, I pin up the new printed data on the wall beside the Moriarty ‘flow-chart’. Like the police, I don’t really know where to begin with this. A lot of the information looks a bit samey to me. He’ll no doubt bring back a lot more specific, first hand information, he’ll move all this around trying to make sense of it. I wonder if he’s left Norfolk yet. No messages, no news. I’m not so queasy now. I should leave.

Mrs Hudson is at the bottom of the stairs. She looks very happy. There’s a cold draught - the front door is propped wide open with a lump hammer.

“John, have you met Karl, my new lodger?” She nods proudly at Karl (Leon). “Hello again, Karl.” who ignores me and blunders straight past, a smouldering roll-up stuck to his lip. Perhaps he is able to speak very good English. I think I might have to take Mrs Hudson’s word for it, though. At the moment he’s more interested in shifting flat pack boxes from a van into Mrs Hudson’s flat.

“Karl has offered to put me in a new kitchen units, isn’t that good of him?” 

He barges past me for a second time, there really isn’t room for all three of us. She whispers behind her hand: “He’s not even going to charge me, he’s just doing it in return for his board and lodgings.” She beams like a dog with two tails. I hope she’s not implying that I should have offered to fit her a kitchen. Perhaps if I had done, she would have kept my room vacant. Karl comes back the other way, empty handed, briefly looks at me like I’m a piece of shit again. He marches off back to the van in his clumpy rigger boots. I can see why she likes him. He’s a charmer, alright.

“Mrs Hudson, I’ve put a load of washing on for Sherlock. I wonder if you’d be good enough to stick everything on the airer when it’s done”.

“Of course, dear. I was going to have a bit of a clean up there today, anyway, I’m afraid let things slide lately. I’ll pop up in an hour or so.”

At this point I remember the large bag of human remains next to the fridge. I probably ought to take those.

Hoisting the heavy, uneven load down the stairs, _(Don’t ask, Mrs Hudson, you don’t want to know),_ I struggle over Leon’s massive collection of tools, overflowing from two oversized Dewalt boxes dumped in the hall, completely in my way. Why does this great oaf need so many tools? And why does he tape his initials to them? _Give me back my room, cretin._

A pile of pipes lies on the threshold ready for me to trip over - shit, I thought that was a silencer. I’m seeing things now that aren’t there. That hasn’t happened for a while. I blame yesterday, I blame Mary. There’s a strong chance I’ll be needing the ‘Trick Cyclist’ again when this lot sinks in. I’ve still got her number…I used to see things all the time that weren’t there. I used to see Sherlock when he was dead.

Great. it’s a dry day. I decide to save a few quid and get the bus. 

Waiting at the bus stop with a line of muffled up Londoners, I look down at my ‘luggage.’ For a moment I imagine the bag ripping open on a crowded bus. Mmm. Could cause a bit of a scene, yet more paperwork to fill out at the station…  
I hold out my arm to three or four cabs until one stops for me. Fetching the car from the surgery I nip to Barts with the bin bag and a note of explanation for Molly. 

Disposing of the body was the easy part. Now to the really challenging problem of the day: Mary. I wonder who the hell she is today.


	12. A.G.R.A.

There are moments in your life that you don’t ever forget. Pivotal moments, epic events, tipping points that can change the course of your destiny forever. I seem to have experienced quite a few. More than most, I would say.

I’ve been standing in this hospital corridor for a while now.

“I’m sorry Mr Watson, it’s ‘dads only’ allowed on the ward outside our official visiting times.”

“But, as I’ve said..”

“Mum and baby need their rest.” Fake, patronising smile from the other (flat chested) nurse.

Why can’t they understand me? _I am speaking English!_ There’s just no bloody coverage in this village. Not on any network. Try again:

“Yes, I appreciate what you’re saying, but as I’ve already told you...”

“Visiting hours are 2 til 3 in the afternoons, 6 til….” _STOP IT!!!_

Breathe. Unclench everything. Change of approach needed:

“Look, it’s Dr Watson, not Mr and that is my wife in there.” I’m repeating myself and it’s tiresome, pointing through the round window of the door to Ward 4. I can actually see Mary from here, she’s only a few yards away in the second bed down on the left, propped up with pillows, holding what was supposed to be my baby daughter. That demonic harpy I met last night has now turned into this - this vision of almighty holiness! Madonna and child. In her white night gown. How pure, how bloody touching. Mary may have spotted me, I’m not sure.

Nurse One now stands in front of me intentionally blocking my view. I can’t believe we’re still having this argument. Exasperated, I try again:

“Is Clare around? The nurse who was here last night? She’ll verify who I am.” Blank faces.  
The ward sister has just arrived now. It’s bloody escalating! 

I came here fully prepared for trouble (I actually rehearsed), but I didn’t expect an early warm-up round with the staff! The ward sister squares up to me. Gets a good shot in:

“Are you the baby’s father, Dr Watson?”

What can I say to that. I look straight back at her. Then at my feet. Swallow. My heart sinks like a depth charge in my chest. Take a few calming breaths. 

By the time I look up, they’re all moving away to deal with something more pressing trusting me with a clear view of Mary through the round window. Her bed is cluttered with blankets and cloths and various baby paraphernalia. There’s a silver helium balloon. A man in a cream fair-isle jumper leans forward to take the baby from her arms. Shit, that’s Dave, I remember him from the wedding. I shook the man’s hand! He sits on the bed holding the new little bundle of life. He looks from baby to Mary, clearly proud, pleased. Mary is all smiles (probably fake, you can never tell). 

I’m on the gallows here and the floor’s just dropped.

So it’s one of those moments. I stand alone in the dull white noise of the hospital corridor, staring numbly through the glass at a family portrait that’s not my own. 

From somewhere behind me, a large, familiar hand slips gently into mine. A hard lump forms in my throat. My eyes, still fixed ahead are starting to load up.

Standing side by side, together we watch the silent movie. 

Time goes by.

There are no words. 

After a while the patient in the nearest bed pulls her bed-curtains closed and shuts out the view. 

“Fuck this.” I swallow down hard, retrieve my hand, “Come on Sherlock, I’ve got the car.”


	13. Lambeth

So I’ve lost my dignity but I’m determined that there are some things I want to keep. I want my clothes, I want my stuff. Putting aside more pressing matters, we’re on the road to Lambeth. Sherlock fills me in on the Duchess of Cambridge case: 

“It was a security cock-up from start to finish - someone’s going to lose their job over this, regardless of the outcome. The Duchess was out riding on the Sandringham Estate, alone, no security escort. She gave no indication of what time she intended coming back and no one remembers being told of her destination. People should have asked. People should have gone with her. It’s an embarrassment. Norfolk police have said (off the record) that they are ‘utterly baffled’ - those are the words of the Chief Superintendent at Norwich by the way, not mine and as we’re being led to believe there isn’t any crime in Norfolk, they are justifiably ill-prepared for a large scale investigation. Quite obviously out of their depth. The Duchess has been getting hate messages on social networking sites but the nature of them didn’t show any significant links to protest groups or extremists. The best lead through this particular avenue turned out to be a 52 year old internet troll called Steve from Essex. I met him at six o’clock this morning. Thinning hair, divorced fourteen years ago, ex-builder, Crohn’s disease, keeps a Cocker Spaniel. Clearly nothing to do with him. Heavy rain last night, hence no footprints. The horse has been found. Injury to the front right leg.”

“Right. I collected some media reports on the case for you, Sherlock, I don’t know if any of it is helpful. It’s back at the flat - you didn’t mind me staying over last night did you?”

Astonished. “No, why would I mind? Stay as long as you like... Stay.” He’s rapidly scanning me, while I drive, I can feel his eyes on me. “You ought to have used my bed, though, John. That sofa is too hard for your shoulder. You should take something for the pain.”

As we drive over Westminster Bridge we notice the streets are so much quieter than usual. Where have all the foreign tourists gone? There’s nothing like the threat of large scale crime to drive them away. Tourists are not like us. Other people generally are not like us.

I park up in front of the house. Sherlock gets out, looks around in disgust at the bag on the back seat. Probably the polka-dots and cupcakes design not to his taste.

He looks at me. 

_Don’t, Sherlock, I know._

I explain: “That’s Mary’s Go-bag.”

“ _Go_ bag?” 

“Yeah. It’s for the things she needs in the hospital, for her and the baby. I forgot it. She was really quite annoyed about that, actually.” 

He swiftly hauls it out with him before I press the central locking.

My key almost gets stuck in the lock (as usual). My pathetic push-bike still leans on the wall in the front hall: 

_“It’s my car, John, not yours and I might need it today.”_

_“Happy birthday, John, I thought you’d want some exercise as you’ve put all that weight on. Ha ha!”_

Next to it my walking stick hangs from the vestibule table. Unused since Moriarty’s ‘resurrection’. Well that’s two things I can live without. 

I should consider what I need to take...Charger, toiletries, clothes... 

Sherlock is rummaging through the decidedly uncool ‘Go-bag’ on the kitchen table. Out of the corner of my eye I catch him squirrelling something away in his coat pocket. “What was that, Sherlock?”

“Mmmm?” 

“That thing you just put in your coat pocket?” Looks at me innocently,

“The honesty thing, Sherlock, remember we talked about that?”

Sherlock opens his hand to reveal a computer memory stick with the initials A.G.R.A. written in sharpie along the side. I’ve seen one like that before. So there’s more than one copy. She obviously likes to have her history near her at all times, then.

“I was going to have a look at this, possibly when you’re not around.” Sherlock says, honestly.

“No, it’s fine, it’s okay, I don’t care. We’ll look at it together back at the flat.” _I think I can do that._

Half an hour later, I’m in the kitchen cooking us some lunch. Trying not to imagine the atrocities that may be on that memory stick. It suddenly occurs to me this is probably the last time I’ll prepare food in this house. My house. The one I bought. When I was in therapy. It was a new start. Before I even met Mary. The mortgage is in both our names now. Can’t deal with that just yet.

We eat macaroni cheese at the kitchen table (Sherlock’s appetite can surprise me), I tell him about last night. I’m get the impression he feels duty bound to try and help me see Mary’s point of view. It’s the vow thing again. Laudable, yes, but it does irritate me at times. And it’s caused no end of trouble. I try to explain to him:

“The thing is, quite apart from the baby’s parentage which is a significant problem for me, Mary isn’t Mary. She behaves….differently. She’s not the same person, Sherlock, I don’t know her.”

“But could you get to know her? Forgive her, persuade her to try again - I mean there’s the baby...”

“Sherlock, that’s not how it works. I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking, ‘John likes women. Mary is a woman and good at it,’ but, no, that’s not how it works. She doesn’t make me happy anymore. I don’t know who the real Mary is or even if such a person ever existed. There’s no bond between us and after everything she’s done, there’s no trust either.”

“You do prefer to be with a woman, though John.” That sounded a bit loaded. He waits.

“Of course I like women, you know I do. Ha, who wouldn’t like women? Even you’re not immune, Sherlock, I caught you looking at Irene Adler’s tits that day and it’s not even your area. I’m not sure how far you went with Janine either.,” 

He’s trying to protest but I’m on a roll here:

“No, leave it, I don’t want to know, but you see my point is, it’s just not enough for me. I’ve been trying to act like a husband to a virtual stranger. She said herself that if I did know her for real, I wouldn’t want her.”

“I see.”

“I’m not even convinced she wants me around, particularly. She just wants to own the rights to me. Taking her back was a mistake.”

I didn’t know any of that until I just said it out loud.

He’s nodding. “What does Mary think?”

“Sherlock, I haven’t got a clue….but last night she said she wishes she’d have killed me.” 

He considers this.

After lunch I wash the dishes at my kitchen sink. Sherlock just wanders off making the best of Mary’s absence by having a good nosey around the house. I let him do it. From God-knows-where he comes back to show me his haul: books in Russian and in Serbian, the gun that she shot him with, a sports bag of clothes that I’ve never seen her wear. Everything is shoved in the sports bag and left by the front door. He goes off upstairs for some more snooping.

I dry my hands as I lean back on the kitchen worktop, look across at the table. This is exactly where I stood last Sunday morning. Behind Mary who seemed to be scrutinising every word of the newspaper. We drank our coffee in silence. _What do you want from me, Mary? Why am I here. If you love me, give me a sign…_ But she said nothing. So neither did I. Perhaps she was sulking. Perhaps she was brewing up to tell me something. Perhaps she was planning my murder.

When you don’t know who you’re married to, sharing your life with. It’s not very relaxing, domestically speaking. It doesn’t make you want to spend time with that person. It’s not conducive to intimacy either. 

Sex never used to be a problem. Not when she was was Mary Morstan: I’ve had _her_ every which way. Over and over. I’ve had her on that very table. We were cooking together and somehow we couldn’t keep our hands off one another. She wanted it rough - she got it rough. She was shouting my name. She loved every minute. Or I thought she did. Now I don’t know how much of that was acting... There hasn’t been any sex since we got back together. It didn’t happen the first night. I wanted it but she didn’t. Then I got banished to the spare room so that was that. 

Incredibly, despite the fact she is the one in the wrong she somehow gained the upper hand in every way leaving me to be the one in the doghouse. I don’t understand how she managed that, God knows I’m not a pushover. I hope I’m not, anyway. Shit. Perhaps I am...

I go upstairs to get my clothes, they’re already folded, just bag them up. Grab three or four things on hangers, leave the rest. The dry petals from the buttonhole of my wedding suit break apart, fluttering down onto the bedroom carpet. How symbolic. I’m not going to pick them up. She can find them.

From the landing I can see Sherlock enthusiastically rooting about in Mary’s nightstand. I should go and tell him how inappropriate that is. I should. But I don’t. Instead, I go downstairs and phone for a cab. Take the car key off my fob and leave it for her on the kitchen table. _Goodbye Mary._


	14. Bang, bang, bang

“Bang, bang.” Pause. “Bang, bang, bang, bang.” Pause. “Bang, bang.”

“Mrs Hudson, please tell your new lodger to shut up! I’m trying to think! Tell him it’s a matter of national security!” Sherlock is pacing up and down the sitting room in his pyjamas and dressing gown, he put three nicotine patches on a few minutes ago, I think they’re kicking in. The racket below has been going on at this annoying, irregular tempo since we got back and it’s driving us up the wall. 

Mrs Hudson just came innocently upstairs with biscuits to get out of the way. Now she’s walked right into Sherlock’s firing line.

“I can’t think with that racket going on Mrs Hudson! Can’t you tell him to do it later?” he yells.

“Not really, dear, ‘cos he’s had to turn the water off, so he needs to get on with it quickly. It’s all a bit of a mess at the moment.”

“Bang, bang, bang.”

“What is he doing down there anyway? Building a bloody galleon?” yells Sherlock.

“He’s ripping my old kitchen out, he’s going to fit me a new one. Those units have been in since the ‘70s, they’re looking a bit tired. Karl offered to do it so I said ‘yes’!”

“Bang!”

In three strides, Sherlock is at the top of the landing. Slipped into a well-timed pause he bellows out something that might have been “Shut the fuck up!” in Croatian.

He chunters under his breath, throwing himself into the desk chair and aggressively reactivating the laptop screen.

I watch him from the settee. His hair is totally messed up. He’s scowling, trying hard to concentrate. I am more than a little in awe of him sometimes. Of course he speaks Croatian.

My eyes are unguarded when he glances up at me. I quickly turn away, clear my throat. I re-focus on cutting out newspaper articles.

‘Rhubarb and Custard’ has been on the phone a couple of times since we got back. The investigation is hitting major problems. Mycroft is coolly, regally, shitting himself.

“Bang, bang.” Pause. “Bang.”

Mrs Hudson turns to me: “John, dear, what are you doing to my wall?” 

“Oh, right.” 

I’m standing on the furniture, pushing drawing pins into the wall. Bit by bit Sherlock and I are re-papering the flat with press clippings and A4. Beside my own creative efforts, the ‘Moriarty is Dead’ exhibition is still up. I suppose to the uninitiated observer it’s just a mess. She looks at me exasperated.

“Bang!” It’s too noisy to even bollock me. She flounces back downstairs.

“John, come and have a look at this.” Sherlock looks serious. 

I go behind him to see what he’s working on. He’s been ignoring Mycroft’s plight entirely and has just cracked the password on Mary’s memory stick. 

It’s full of data folders for her hit-jobs. The latest one is called ‘Three Little Pigs’ He clicks it. The top file is called ‘John Watson Pictures.’ My hand is on his shoulder. I squeeze it a little.  
“Go on…” There are photos of me taken about three years ago in various locations - this is surveillance. Me going into the off-license, me walking along a street in Chinatown, standing outside Janus Cars… there’s dozens of them. Video footage of me walking around this very sitting room doing nothing in particular, I go to the window, looks like I’m talking to Sherlock at his desk one evening... I can see by my clothes that the film was from ages ago, not long after we’d been to Dartmoor, I reckon. There were bugs in our flat. Perhaps they’re here still, the place will need to be swept. 

‘John H Watson Profile’ is basically my bloody life story! Parents, siblings, exam results, hobbies, personal habits, taste in music, sexual partners (Christ, that’s quite a lot - although gratifyingly they’ve missed a couple)...

‘John H Watson Army’ contains my army service record including medical records: my shoulder X-Rays, psychiatric reports. They’re supposed to be confidential!

I step back, reeling. Right now I feel like that bloke from the fridge - dissected, examined, my parts bagged up in this portable storage device.

Then it gets worse: ‘John’s Ideal Partner.’ It lists: important characteristics, interests to share, topics to discuss, qualities to mime... It’s quite prescriptive stage direction. 

It’s also a perfect description of the Mary Morstan I married. 

I’m still holding Sherlock’s shoulder, it’s the only thing keeping me upright, my legs have gone to liquid. Emotionally I waver between ‘upset’ and ‘livid’. Typically I’m settling on livid for now. I charge out to the landing to kick something. 

MY LIFE! What did I ever do to deserve this woman? I thought she was genuine, I thought she loved me. Our whole relationship was fictitious, I’ve been manipulated, made a fool of. Breathing is difficult, my head is on fire, can’t get in a state over this. Have to calm down or Bloody Mary gets the better of me yet AGAIN! Got to get my breath. Relax my hand, head up, breathe, breathe...

Back in the sitting room Sherlock has found a folder of emails in Serbian. He tells me he’s going to translate them. I need a minute. A cup of strong tea will help. As the kettle boils I count backwards from 300 as I watch the steam curl upwards. Control, control… 299, 298, 297...

So Mary Morstan never even existed - she was played by an actress. I’d been lonely, gullible, I was primed up, ready to believe her lies. Although to be fair Sherlock apparently fell for it, too. And he’s as clever as it gets.

Placing his mug next to the laptop I ask: “How come you can speak Serbian and Croatian, then?”

I’ve suspended his concentration.

“When I was working for Mycroft, during the two years I was...away, I was sent on undercover work in Serbia. Tracking down the last threads of Moriarty’s network. hopefully.” He adds:  
“Croatian is not a language in it’s own right, John. Just a dialect of Serbian. I’m not very familiar with it but what's-his-name down there seems to have got my gist.” He smiles. He’s right, actually, it’s gone quiet.

I pull up a chair. We sit together to read the contents of ‘Operation Three Little Pigs’ .

A.G.R.A. was assigned the role of Mary Morstan, (single female from Kent, nurse, no family). There’s Mary’s CV with her nursing qualifications - I’ve seen that one before. Her mission was to woo me over a period of several months. On the command she was to shoot me dead with Sherlock as a witness. Her swift exit from the country with a new identity was pre-arranged. ‘Three Little Pigs’ was launched six months before Sherlock appeared back in London. That’s what happened. That’s when it started. The date named is the date I first met Mary. 

Sherlock rises from his chair. Behind me the slow pensive notes from his violin strings cut through the silence. Some documents are in English, some in Serbian. I’m just trying to make some sense of it all. I try to pretend this is about someone else but it’s not easy. Why would this Ernie want to kill me? I’m racking my brains. I’ve never met anyone called Ernie.

Hours have gone by. It’s dark outside. I’m still reading. Sherlock’s leaning against the mantelpiece. I can sense he’s watching me. I look up. He’s staring. 

“What?”

“You look tired, John. Take my bed, I’m going to carry on working.” He wafts his hand in the direction of his bedroom. He reaches around me taking away my laptop. When I turn round he’s already in his armchair with his head down, studying the files. He’s settling in. He will soon be uncommunicative, engrossed. I might as well get some rest.

Five minutes later, with all the cares in the world, my head surrenders to the sweet embrace of a duck down pillow carrying a whiff of his cologne. I reach over to turn off the light. What a difference a day makes. In one day I’ve lost my wife and child to another man. On top of that Mary (the woman I married), is actually being paid to murder me for some unknown reason - but as Sherlock pointed out last night, she hasn’t done it yet.


	15. Bed

Here comes Bod. Why am I hearing the theme music to Bod? Oh bloody hell whose idea was this? Greg’s calling. I reach across, pick up the phone.

“John! Thought you’d still be up. Listen, I don’t know if you’ve been trying to contact me but we’ve had a problem at the Yard with our I.T. The computers have gone down, phones, everything it’s chaos, leave that statement for now, mate, I’m up to my neck in it. Anyway, enough about me. How’s the family?”

“W..she’s left me, Greg.” There’s no other way of saying it.

“What do you mean, she’s left you? She was in the delivery suite having your baby the last I heard. How can she leave you?”

“It turned out it wasn’t my baby. We had a row. We’ve split up.”

“Shit. I’m sorry John that’s fucking terrible for you, mate. I’ve never heard anything like it. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, I’m staying with Sherlock. I’m hopefully going to help him with the big kidnapping case. Duchess of Cambridge? Keep myself busy, you know.”

“Sure. Listen, if you still want to go out for a drink...it sounds like you need one, just give me a call. Probably best to call me on the yard number though, not the mobile. Look, I’m going to have to let you go, the engineer is after this phone again. You just look after yourself, okay?”

“Okay Greg thanks. Cheers. Bye.”

12:25. I’m tired. I didn’t sleep much last night on that rock-hard settee. I don’t think Sherlock slept at all last night. He’s essentially working on two cases now. He’s hardly stopped working for days on end, thinking about it. It must all be taking its toll. 

The minutes roll by and I’m still thinking about him. I can’t fall back to sleep. I’m resting in his bed while he’s working. This isn’t right. I swing my feet to the floor. I’ll go to the sitting room to see how he’s doing, I can at least be supportive...

Sherlock has fallen asleep in his chair, his lap strewn with technology. It’s not for the first time. The room’s still warm - the fire’s just glowing embers now, lighting his face with an ethereal amber glow. The wall of the chimney breast in his reaching distance is festooned with a dozen scribbled post-it notes. 

Sherlock’s unsupported head hangs awkwardly, his chin’s doubled. He’s due for a shave. He looks beautiful, serene - like a painting of a martyred saint.

_Oh Sherlock, you’ll hurt your neck if you sleep like that. You’re not doing any more work tonight._

I gently lift his hand, relocate it from the keyboard to the arm of the chair. I carefully relieve him of both our laptops, their cables, two mobile phones (one’s plugged in). He slumbers on. 

Stepping back, I can stare at him unchallenged. His relaxed face looks so innocent. He has pushed himself too hard lately, he forgets he’s human. Tonight his ‘transport’ won a rare victory. Honourable, pain in the arse Sherlock with a compulsion to solve other people’s problems. Look at him. What he does to himself. He should pay more attention to his own needs. Idiot.

He’s deeply asleep - I can get very close. He won’t know. I’ve got a strong compulsion to kiss his cheek. He could wake up, though. How would he react? I’m not sure if he’d cope, actually. Bit too close for comfort. But he might not wake up. It’s a gamble. It’s late, so perhaps it would be okay. My mind is wandering again... No. It’s not fair. Withdraw. I nudge his shoulder a few times, pat his jaw until he wakes with a fluster, he focuses in on my face in a bleary confusion. With my best doctor’s voice I hold out my arms to help him up. “Come on, you. Bed.”

\-------------------

 

I can’t smell bacon so it’s Sunday - the cafe’s shut. There is some fag smoke though, blowing in on the breeze from the open window. Leon’s probably having a roll-up in the back yard below. 

On the other side of the bed Sherlock sleeps on. We share his deep feather quilt. He’s curled up naked as usual, facing me in a foetal curl. His hand is on my pillow, long fingers an inch or so from my nose. 

It’s just starting to get light. Daybreak is a long job in February, it’s probably gone 08:00.  
It’s comfortably warm in here. Smells familiar. Feels like home.

He rolls away from me onto his back, his hand has gone over to his right temple, his elbow juts out. The quilt has slid down a bit with the change in position. I look across the landscape of his pale torso. He’s so thin, I wish he would feed himself sometimes, not just when I cook for him.

Wait, there are dark patches on his ribs. Propping myself up on my side I have a closer look in the half-light. It’s angry purple bruising down one side of his rib cage. When did he do that? Who did that to him? More to the point, where was I? The pattern of his breathing changes, he’s fidgeting, waking up.

“Good morning, John.” Cracks an eye open to look up at me, looking at him.

“Morning Sherlock. Er, what happened to your ribcage?”

“What? Oh that. That was our friend at Tate Britain, it’s nothing, it’s fine.” He rubs his face with his hand.

“You should have let me to have a look at it, you might have cracked a bone.”

“No, really, it’s fine, it’s just the skin. I bruise easily…” He smacks his lips sleepily, “You should’ve seen the other chap.” 

We both smile broadly. I’m picturing Dustcoat now, handcuffed to a gurney. In pain. Neck in a brace. It’s the little things that cheer you up.

There’s a mark near Sherlock’s sternum. The bullet wound. From when his heart was broken... I touch the triangle of scar tissue, my finger draws lazy circles around it. My own wife did this. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry he trusted my judgement.I’m sorry he had that much faith in me. 

Of it’s own volition, my fingertip skates slowly on, across the ivory skin of his breast. I trace gentle lines over his collarbone, his bruised ribs, his suprasternal notch… What made me take Mary back after she’d almost killed Sherlock, my best friend, and she was his friend too, or made him think so... I knew what she’d done and yet I still took her back! Whatever was I thinking…

But he wanted me to take her back. His vow, his bloody wedding vow. He must have thought that my future happiness depended on her. Then there was the baby... My finger goes back to the scar on his chest. I have to get this out: “Sherlock, I’m so sorry. Sorry for putting you through all this. I should never have married Mary.”

“John, don’t.” he says softly. “You didn’t know who she was.”

“No, but I knew who she wasn’t.” I blurt out. I’m not even sure what I mean by that.

He’s trying to read my face. He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it again.

I don’t know what to say either. My fingertip moves over his chest again in gentle, slow figures of eight. We both go back to watching it. His skin reacts to my touch. He’s very sensitive. 

_That’s why you don’t miss a thing isn’t it, Sherlock. You feel things more than most of us mortals. You feel everything. Intensely._

Is this still a medical examination? I’m not sure...There’s a chest hair or two, a vein near this nipple, tentative exploration… A tiny gasp, a movement in the small of his back makes his chest rise up a bit. 

_My God, your skin is so responsive. You’re not objecting either. You like it. Surprising. If I move the quilt down like this just a little…_

Someone’s in the flat, I can hear them. In a second I am out of bed, I throw on Sherlock’s dressing gown. My ear is at the door as I tie up the cord. Sherlock stays where he is. He covers his eyes with his forearm. Okay then. I’ll handle this.

Abruptly I open the bedroom door - frightening the living daylights out of Mrs Hudson. 

Standing down. “Oh, sorry Mrs Hudson I didn’t mean to startle you, I just... heard someone.”

Mrs Hudson manages to save the tray of tea and composes herself. She looks me up and down taking in the vision of me in Sherlock’s robe. 

“Good morning, John.” she gives me a wry smile that I try to ignore. “I was just bringing the tea. Shall I get another cup?”

I can hear the shower turn on in the bathroom behind me.


	16. Mercury

Rested, groomed, energised, Sherlock Holmes is at the top of his game this morning. He smells wonderful. 

Running on just two bites of toast and a cup of tea with me and Mrs Hudson he’s leaping over the settee rearranging the A4 again on the wall. Mrs Hudson is oblivious to this assault on her decor. She has her back to him, reloading the tea tray, talking about spending a few days away at her friend’s cottage on the coast so ‘Leon’ to finish off the kitchen. I tell her it’s a good idea. 

Thankfully she doesn’t ask about Mary or the baby. She never does. She has a bit of an issue with Mary since she almost killed Sherlock. Understandable. She’s got more common sense than I have. I should listen to Mrs Hudson more often. I think she’s actually my mum.

With impeccable timing, Sherlock dismounts the settee as Mrs Hudson turns to leave. He’s standing back, pondering, eyes darting around the wall from one piece of paper to another, one side of the wall to the other. He sifts rapidly through the original newspapers on the coffee table.

“Have you noticed, John that practically all the media coverage: the papers, online, the TV news are using the same phrases, regardless of the credited journalist. It’s always same wording look “threatened and bundled into a car”, for example. There’s no proof that happened, by the way. I was there with a forensic team shortly afterwards. There’s simply no evidence of that.”

Yes, I had thought the articles were a bit ‘samey’.

“The Daily Mercury’s coverage on the other hand is completely different. Although they give the story less coverage, the text is more original. Also, they’re the only ones using this photograph.” He points to a picture of a smiling Duchess in the passenger seat of a car, a female companion at her side. “Looks like it was taken from CCTV.”

It does. So what. That doesn’t really tell us anything. I’m not sure what he’s getting at. There’s that face again. He thinks I’m keeping up. I explain to him that I’m not.

“After Augustus Magnussen was...well, after I deleted his hard-drive so to speak, CM Global News was split up, bought out by their competitors The only daily paper they now publish is The Daily Mercury. As the coverage is the same in all the other news sources, let’s assume that someone (not Moriarty obviously, he’s dead), but someone is controlling the news output. Apart from that of The Daily Mercury! Their reports are independent. I think this photograph could be important.”

Okay, I think I’m following. 

“So where do we take this from here?”

He nods at a copy of ‘The Daily Mercury’ open on the coffee table at the page with the photograph. 

“We get hold of the original CCTV photograph - we need to see the unpixelated number plate so New Scotland Yard can trace the car.”

Rhubarb and Custard time again. No pleasantries.

“Mycroft, just the man. I need the original photograph taken from CCTV of the Duchess of Cambridge in a car with a female companion, it featured on page...4 of yesterday’s “Daily Mercury’ could you manage that for me? I would call them myself using your name but I know how that irks you.”

There it is, in his inbox within a few minutes. Amazing. I get on the phone to Greg with the registration number so he can run the plates.

“I’ll do it as soon as I can John.” He sounds agitated.

“The system’s off line again at the moment. It’s happy hour for car thieves. This IT company supposed to be sorting it out for us, I don’t know if it’s a virus or what it is but I think they’re making things worse. I’ll get back to you with this soon as.” 

Sherlock’s studying the original photograph. He frowns. “She looks familiar.”

“Yes, Sherlock, it’s the Duchess of Cambridge.”

“No, the other one…” He steeples his hands beneath his chin, staring into the middle distance.

I flip open my laptop. Time to get the latest media reports and I remember to transfer the money I owe to Sherlock’s bank account. Mary’s memory stick’s still in. The series of emails in Serbian between A.G.R.A. and Ernie. This is what Sherlock must have been working on when he burnt himself out last night. I scroll idly while I’m waiting for Greg.

Near the end, amongst the gobble-de-gook I come across a phrase in English that stops me in my tracks. At that precise moment Greg calls me back.

“John I’ve got it. Had to get it from the back-up drive. Car is British, owned by a Ms Ernestine von der Osten Sacher, Serbian citizen. She claimed it back when it was impounded for long-term illegal parking last year.”

“Ernestine you say?” as in, Ernie? What is it with Ernie? Why that name again?

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Where was it parked?”

“Car park of Block D8, Battersea Power Station site, been there for weeks. Builders needed it shifting. Can’t tell you where the car or the owner are at the moment, John you know how we’re fixed.”

“No, no, it’s fine. Thanks Greg, that’s a big help.”

I’m still looking back at the screen, subject line ‘The Three Little Pigs’ Might be a coincidence but this phrase in English is one I have heard a lot the past couple of weeks: “Did You Miss Me?”


	17. Battersea Power Station

The disused Battersea Power Station with it’s famous twin chimneys looms over us like an enormous brick woolly mammoth. Demoted from a power house to a building site. Within a year or two it will all be upmarket apartments - prime riverside location. That’s London for you. That’s progress.

The huge overhead cranes sleep on their feet in the steel grey sky. It might rain today.

There are stacked portacabins, trucks, portable gantries plus every kind of heavy plant, all of it standing down today for the sake of the sabbath, (such as it is). Hardly anybody about at the moment. Good. 

Greg sounded stressed, rapidly losing patience with the technology. A member of the royal family has been abducted and he’s struggling to get any data. Disastrous. I’d remarked to Sherlock that I couldn’t imagine a worse time for Scotland Yard to have a communications crisis. The clock is ticking for the Duchess of Cambridge. We only have this one lead so we have to follow it up pronto.

Under the circumstances, as we can’t have Greg with us we’ve decided to break in. On my way out of Baker Street, I had the foresight to help myself to a nice heavy set of monogrammed bolt croppers from Leon’s toolbox. They’ll probably come in handy for this operation. The cabby frowns suspiciously at the bolt croppers as we bail out. Shouldn’t take us long. We get him to wait for us.

“Why would a friend of the Duchess of Cambridge leave her car at Battersea Power Station for weeks on end? It’s bizarre.” I appear to be talking to myself, Sherlock has gone off ahead.

Hopefully they’ll be clues here, something, anything. Although there won’t be anything to discover in the car park because there isn’t one anymore. It’s part of ‘construction city’. Predictably the site appears to be well locked down. With a little run, I catch Sherlock up. He looks pleased with himself. 

There’s an 8ft high metal barrier fence in front of the brick building marked ‘Block D8’. It’s hung with cheery signs in picture form warning of everything inside that could maim us. He’s found the right area already.

Checking all around. No one has challenged us so far, it’s going well. The bolts yield to the snap of the bolt croppers jaws. Cheers, Leon. I follow Sherlock through a gate followed by a galvanised metal turnstile. We’ve infiltrated the city walls. No messing.

There’s a storage area for builders’ bags, some badly parked pick up trucks, then beyond is an avenue of multi-storey portacabins leading to the building. 

“We need to look the part.” Sherlock is muttering, peering into a truck. He tries the door handle to no avail. Taking the bolt croppers, with one good whack he tries the window instead. Shattering glass explodes noisily into the cab. If anyone is about, they would have heard that. Hurriedly he gets the door open. A shower of glass crystals cascades over the step. Grabbing hard hats and hi-vis vests from front seat we start walking away as we put them on. 

“Ironically, John, I find that high visibility clothing is extremely effective in helping a person blend in with their surroundings. You can walk about unchallenged in virtually any environment if you’re wearing hi-vis.” 

I consider this for a moment. Can’t think that can be entirely true.

“What about a nice west end restaurant.”

“No John, obviously. Then you’d need a tuxedo.” 

Our eyes meet as we both remember the restaurant on Marylebone Road where he reappeared after 2 years dead - as a bloody waiter. For. A. Joke. (I thought I was going mad until he responded to Mary).Two years. Not funny Sherlock. Not funny at all. I did punch him a lot that evening. Pretty hard.

He’s reading my mind as he pulls up the zip.

“Oh, forget it John, I deserved it.”

Making our way towards the red brick building, checking left and right, Sherlock abruptly yanks me by the front of my jacket - pulls me roughly between two cabins. He pins me to the wall, flattens his body to mine, squeezing us in the gap. The bolt croppers fall to the floor.

“What is it?” I hiss into his neck. He’s pressing against me in this tight space. Not sure what brought this on. We’re close, he doesn’t do close. A deep, breathy whisper at my ear:  
“Someone’s here.” 

“What? where?”

Sherlock has the hearing of a dog. 

He holds me still. His hands grip my upper arms, my hands are holding onto his hips, padded with clothing. I know not to speak. There’s no time to hide any more than we have so we just hold our breath put our faith in his theory of hi-invisibility. We’re pressed together, sharing the same tiny space. Our faces kept apart by the cumbersome safety helmets. Even through our thick clothing I can feel his chest expand and deflate, his left thigh is against mine... 

An electrically powered security van cruises slowly past us down the avenue. Daren’t breathe...It keeps going... It will pass down the other side soon. Keep going you bastard, keep going… It doesn’t pause, they haven’t spotted us in here. This feels intimate.

My eyes are closed now, small breaths, my hands still on his hips, his body pushed against mine. The seconds go by.

Sherlock’s mouth moves close to the side of my neck, his deep resonant voice whispers the all clear. For one mad moment, I thought that he… thought that we… no. Christ.

Sherlock backs out of the gap, sets me free. He glances down at me then closes his eyes, swiftly turns away. Oh dear, he’s flustered, embarrassed. That was too much for him, clearly. He dusts his jacket down with his hands. I feel bad for him I’ll have to get us out of this:  
“I thought we were gonna try a tango then… did you change your mind?” we walk on, he’s ahead of me.

He coughs “No, we’re a bit short of time today for that sort of thing, John. I trust you’ve been keeping up with your dancing, though.”

“Certainly not.”

Remembering to go back for the bolt croppers, we head for the main building. He waits for me at the metal door, it’s only secured with a padlock. Snick, and we’re inside. 

Grey daylight filters in through toughened glass. In the entrance hall, the damp brick walls repel their own paintwork into brittle curls. Rooms leading off have had their doors replaced by polythene sheeting - it billows and rattles at the incoming breeze from the front door. I can taste old brick dust from the hills of rubble on the concrete floor - internal walls have been knocked through.

Sherlock wastes no time, he sniffs his way round all the space, the corners. He’s on his hands and knees brushing sweepings from the floor into the little plastic vials he keeps in his pockets. He rapidly runs his gloved finger along the metal sills, the skirting, the pipes. He counts the rooms off aloud as he’s going along, his eyes flutter from side to side as he takes it all in. The magnifying glass is out now. He’s thorough.

I’m not sure what we were hoping for but I worry it might be too late to find any evidence here. Evidence of rats, maybe. I can see that.

Walking on ahead, I stumble across something pretty obvious.The builders haven’t reached this room yet, evidently. In the corner there’s an army-style camp bed with a blanket, a portable stove, a few bits of enamelware. There’s also a generator with an attached surge protector. Someone has been squatting here. Using a computer, too by the looks of it. There’s graffiti on the wall, more like notes, jottings. Written with a marker pen or a Sharpie.

“Sherlock! you should have a look at his.” He joins me in the doorway holding his glass.

“A portable generator in a power station, well that seems a bit ...ah. What’s this…”  
He’s reading the text on the wall. So am I. I think my jaw has dropped.

It’s three sets of dates followed by initials. The first set grabs my attention immediately: The date I first met Mary - that’s a coincidence, our wedding date - fancy that, two weeks later followed by the initials ‘A.G.R.A’. Those dates, those initials - it can’t be a coincidence. How could Mary be involved in the kidnapping? What’s the connection with Ernie? I tell Sherlock about the “Did you miss me?” email on the memory stick.

There’s more. Dates from five weeks ago, ten days ago and today’s date initials ‘J.L.T.’ Doesn’t mean anything to either of us. I photograph the wall. 

Three more dates from one week ago, yesterday and again, one today, initials ‘K.L.R.T’. Those letters looks familiar.I look down at the bolt croppers still in my hand. On blue electrical tape stuck to the handle are the clearly printed initials K.L.R.T. Our new tenant at 221B. 

Sherlock is still looking at the wall, his hands are steepled under his chin. I show him the handle of the bolt croppers.

“Sherlock, can you make any sense of all this?”

He doesn’t look. He already knows. He’s walking away from me, hands to his temples, wrapped up in his Mind Palace. He’s mumbling in a foreign tongue, his hands flail around as he draws thoughts to him then pushes them aside. The jabbering grows louder, more rapid. I wait. With a spin of his heels he’s facing me. 

“We need to get to Baker Street now, John. Mrs Hudson is in danger.”

His phone is in his hand as we run back through the building. 

“I’m trying Mrs Hudson. John, text Lestrade, tell him to get a forensic team here. He’s not to use his computer and he must on no account leave Scotland Yard!”


	18. Tick Tock

The cab driver instantly became a damned good getaway driver when I told him it’s a matter of life and death. The black taxi weaves across town with the controlled agility of a premier league footballer. The man has skills. That doesn’t, however stop Sherlock from back seat driving, “Oh come on, can’t you go any faster? Tick tock! No, cut down there, it’s quicker at this time of day, no I don’t mean there, that’s one way, obviously...”

The cabbie totally ignores him. Sherlock scowls in frustration, finally giving up the effort. As we’re jolted and tossed around in the backseat of the cab, he hurriedly joins the dots for me: 

“Three years ago, Moriarty arranged three hits to take place if I failed to die when I jumped off Bart’s roof: one on you, one on Mrs Hudson, one on Lestrade. _‘I already know this part.’_ Apparently he called this operation ‘Three Little Pigs’. Knowing he wasn’t going to be around to oversee the job, he left someone in charge. That someone was Ernestine von der Osten Sacher. However, as I apparently ‘died’ the hits were automatically called off.”

We just cut someone up in a Fiat then almost ran over an old gent on a zebra crossing. Almost. He’s got it under control, this man, it’s fine. The seat belts are working.  
“When I was working for Mycroft in Serbia, I helped uncover a very lucrative arms smuggling operation with connections to Moriarty. Ernestine was involved but was never charged with anything. She was at the court hearing, I remember her. She must have recognised me, realised I was somehow still alive so she went ahead with ‘Three Little Pigs’.   
You’re the first little pig, John. According to schedule you should be dead already.”

“Mary was supposed to kill me. That’s what she said in the hospital.”

“After the Magnussen case there was a danger I’d leave the country, ruining the plan. I had to be around to see all three victims die - to have the heart ripped out of me. So Ernestine took the initiative, used the network’s connections in the media to broadcast the ‘Did You Miss Me?” recordings, guessing (quite correctly) that with Moriarty at large, I would be needed here. 

“Well all the ‘Did You Miss Me’ frenzy certainly got some attention. Especially in London,” I say.

“But surely, if Moriarty’s been dead all this time, why bother with carrying out the hits at all? Was it just revenge for you helping destroy the arms smuggling racket?”

“No. The motive was money. She wanted to disrupt things at the Met. and keep the secret services occupied so she could kidnap the Duchess of Cambridge. She gets the £400 million ransom demand if she pulls this off.

The cab goes straight over a junction on a red light. Good reactions. Good steering…

“So the other little pigs are Mrs Hudson and Greg.” I check the photo on my phone. “The dates on the wall - something will happen today?”

“Exactly. Damn, Mrs Hudson’s still not answering, perhaps Karl’s making a racket again, or Oh God. Driver! get a move on!”

We burst into 221B straight in to Mrs Hudson’s flat. Our landlady is thankfully alive and well, foil wrapping up a raw chicken in the back kitchen. Or I should say, what’s left of the kitchen. There are batons screwed to the bare wall, there’s a Black and Decker Workmate, a lot of half-built cupboard carcasses and some sawdust. She grumbles: “I told Karl I needed the kitchen in for one o’clock because that’s when I’d be back. I wanted to cook us all Sunday lunch. I bought a chicken. I left him to it this morning but it looks like he’s done nothing. He’s not even here, he even left the back door unlocked. All his blessed tools are in the way...”

Shit. he’s probably lurking somewhere, ready to pounce. Take command, Watson.

“Mrs Hudson, I feel awful now, Sherlock and I, we’ve got a restaurant booked for later, just the two of us. I should have let you know. I’ll tell you what, here,” I hand her a couple of tenners, “ get yourself a nice lunch at Wetherspoons. You can’t cook in here, it’s impossible. We’ll hang around, sort this out with Karl when he comes back.”

Her face brightens as I help her on with her coat, usher her towards the front door. “Oh John, that’s very good of you. I don’t want you to upset Karl, though,” she lowers her voice. “I think he can be a bit, a bit moody shall we say..”

“Don’t worry about a thing, Mrs Hudson. We’ll deal with this.”

The door closes behind her, she’s gone. Into a public area. Without a word, Sherlock’s already going into her sitting room so he’s obviously taking the downstairs. I’ll start checking at the top of the house, work my way downwards. I pull out my gun. Make my way up to my old room, careful to miss out the creaky stair. 

I still have the key to my old room on my keyring. I stand and listen at the door. I’m ready. I feel in control. 

No sign of life. 

Silence from inside. 

I stand to the side of the door, unlock it with one turn, slam it open. Empty. No one here. No sign of anyone having been here either. The bed is made up military style. 

I go down to the next landing to check out our flat. Nothing. It’s exactly as we left it.   
When I go back down and walk into Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, Sherlock is just coming in the opposite door from the back yard. We stop short. We both hear it at the same time. Something’s ticking.

Sherlock’s eyes rapidly scan the room, his sensitive hearing pinpoints the source: his eyes go to the cooker where the timer has been set. Nothing sinister, just a cooker timer, the ancient dial clicking round gradually to the top. Except she said she’s not cooking.There’s a raw chicken sitting on the stove. 

The dial clicks round. Two clicks away from the top. Together we dive for the: ‘Off’. The ticking stops. 

Sherlock backs off and I carefully twist the groaning knob of the oven door. There on the top shelf is about a pound of Semtex plastic explosive - we both know there’s enough here blow up this kitchen taking down half our flat with it. I flick off the electric switch at the wall, tug out the wires leading to the timer switch. The sinister package sits harmlessly in my hand. No harm done. Sherlock is paler than ever. 

“Well,” he says “That was about as successful as her last fruit cake.”

My heart’s still racing. That was much too close.


	19. Pigs

I start to call Scotland Yard. This isn’t Sandringham, it’s central London. There’s CCTV everywhere. Leon can’t have got far yet. 

“Hang up, John.”

“What, why?”

“Lestrade is the next little pig. Scotland Yard’s phone and computer systems are compromised, it’s part of the plan. I’ll call Mycroft instead, he’s got his eyes on the city.”

“Okay, but we still need to warn Greg somehow. He’s the next hit!”

“We’ll have to go in person, John come on.” We hurry out of 221B. Remarkably, our getaway driver for the day is still in situ at the kerb awaiting further instructions. With no police assigned to traffic control today he’s obviously enjoying himself. Also, neither of us paid him, yet.

Sherlock instructs him to drive to Scotland Yard. At this point I remember something important:

“Sherlock, what about Mrs Hudson?” She can’t go home, we don’t know where Karl is.”

“She should have finished her lunch by now, she’s a little old lady, for goodness sake, how much can she possibly eat?Wetherspoons over there, first please, driver.”

Mrs Hudson is a predictable creature. I find her at the tail end of a half pint of Guinness, in the pub lounge, a Sunday roast in front of her. She’s watching The Simpsons on the pub TV. Bless her. She really is my mum. 

I swiftly get her away from the telly whisking her into the front seat of the cab.

A screech, a puff of brown smoke, the smell of burnt rubber, we mount the kerb and tear off towards Park Lane.

Mrs Hudson twists round to me “Where are we going?” I put my index finger against my lips, point to Sherlock still on the phone to Mycroft. 

“Leave Scotland Yard out of it, Mycroft. I think their security’s been breached, we are on our way there now to warn Lestrade that he’s the next hit. While you’re on, that photograph in the Daily Mercury, the woman in the car is Ernestine von der Osten Sacher - do you remember the Vladja arms case in Serbia last year? She was involved, we missed it. I need everything you have on her, I think she has the Duchess. We’ve got her car reg., we know her face, also she’s been seen with the Duchess recently so it can’t be hard even for the Norfolk lot….. I know, but Moriarty seems to have grown another head.”

“What’s going on, Sherlock, where are we going?” asks Mrs Hudson.

“Your new lodger is trying to kill you, Mrs Hudson. We’re going to Scotland Yard to file a complaint.”

I gape at him, dumbfounded at his utter lack of tact. He only shrugs at me as we narrowly avoid a head on collision.


	20. New Scotland Yard

Hard to believe it’s Sunday at New Scotland Yard. The huge, bright entrance hall is busy as a weekday. Reception is standing room only. Everyone’s at work. Systems thrown in chaos, phones that don’t work, officers deployed in the wrong places. Greg’s probably under the impression he’s having a really bad day. He has no idea.

Sherlock shames a youth in a hoodie into giving up their seat for the bemused Mrs Hudson.

Just our bad luck that the security scanner is still fully functional - my gun is confiscated, also a pocket knife. Surprisingly, Sherlock is relieved of Mary’s 9mm pistol. This could end badly. With weapons confiscated, we’re on our own. For a mad moment I consider involving the security team. They would evacuate the building though. There’d be pandemonium - ideal for a hitman. In any case, we don’t know who we can trust.

We bound up the stairs to the third floor, Sherlock ahead of me. The large open plan office on the third floor is home to what is Greg’s division. Today the odd ceiling tile or two has been popped out. There are cables, extension leads, hardware entrails exposed and people milling about in confusion.

Sherlock walks straight into Greg’s room. “We need to talk, Graham, something urgent’s cropped up.”

“It’s Greg actually. What are we talking about. Is this about Moriarty?”

“In a manner of speaking. Why is this man here?”

I’m standing guard in the outer office, near Greg’s door. A handsome, sandy haired bloke, probably late twenties exits Greg’s office leaving the door wide open. He comes over to a desk next to me where he rummages in a leather bag that reminds me of my medical kit bag. He brings out components, pliers and circuit boards. I’ve never seen him before. I think I’m going to stay here a minute.

I can’t hear Sherlock or Greg now, so I assume they’re whispering, Sherlock will be putting him in the picture.

All around me people are tapping at handsets, trying to get a line out. Monitors are blank and there’s an atmosphere of frustrated annoyance. 

Sergeant Donovan has spotted me. She’ll come over I expect and ask me about the baby. Great. I turn to the tech. guy: “So, have you worked here for long then?” I ask him. 

“One week. I’m just a trouble shooter.” 

“Are you now.” not a question.

I take out my phone. Check the photograph from the wall at Battersea Power Station. I check the dates next to J.L.T. “So you started on the fourth, is that right?” His eyes roll up to work it out. “Yes, I started on the Friday, the agency called me. I’m a specialist.” Might be coincidence but as I thought the date tallies with the one on the wall at Battersea. This is our man. I go towards the door, I want to somehow tell Sherlock and Greg.

Greg shouts through “Joe, can you try plugging the router back in for me, please?”

Tech guy smiles through the open door, holds up two fingers like a ‘V’ for victory. He takes a lead in one hand with a router in the other as Sherlock yells:

“Vatican Cameos!”

Shit, this is it! I hurl myself at Joe, knock him to the ground with the impact of my body. My weight is on him. That’s not a router he’s holding, it’s a bloody firearm! I’m too far down his body to wrestle it from him, and he knows it. He’s starting to twist his upper body, he’s on his right elbow about going to aim through the open doorway. Damn! he’s left handed. I can’t disarm him, I can only grab his throat from here. I reach up with my left hand, grasp his windpipe as hard as I can, like crushing a can, my fingertips nearly touching around. He takes his shot through the doorway - the sound rings out, there’s a clattering, screaming. Still gripping his throat, with an upward lurch my right hand impacts with his upper arm throwing off his aim. I’m keeping up the pressure, choking him, he’s gagging, flailing, trying to kick me, his head shaking wildly trying to shake me off, but I’m holding firm.

Joe’s attention is all on me, now, his supporting elbow collapses as he maximises his effort, pushes at my face. He can’t look down to me, I have his throat up in a deadly hold, my other hand’s still disabling him. I know he wants to push his fingers in my eyes but he can’t quite get to them. He’s kicking at my shins but I’m still on him with all my force, he’s going to weaken. Legs of police officers surround us, one of them disarms him just as his strength fails and his body falls limp on the carpet tiled floor.

I release my grip on his windpipe, push myself up to my feet on trembling legs. Sherlock! He and Greg emerge through the door - no blood. I rush to him, my arms round his shoulders. He’s leaning towards me and the rear ebbs away.

There’s commotion around me. I look down to Joe as his eyes roll back. His exposed throat is a vivid scarlet from my crushing fingers. He’s very still. I’m about to take his vitals when I’m distracted by the bang of falling plaster on the office floor behind me, dislodged by the bullet hit.

Joe’s body jolts, there’s a gurgling, a thrust of his head as blood ejects from his mouth and splatters down his shirt. He’s trying to breathe. So I back off.

“Sit him up,” I order the officers. “He’ll live.” 

The crack in Greg’s voice belies his cool facade as he barks his orders to the nearest copper: “So don’t just stand there - cuff him, then - and radio for an ambulance.” 

I put my hand on Greg’s shoulder, I tell him: “We should definitely go for that drink soon.” He nods wholeheartedly, the colour is drained from his face. Someone did just tried to kill him.


	21. Chips

“Why is it do you think that chips taste so much better out of paper?” I ponder as we tuck into the hot packages of greasy carbohydrates. We’re eating them at the table in the sitting room, (we’ve still to deal with the kitchen/laboratory situation).

“I think it’s to do with the vinegar. The acetic acid is blotted to some extent by the chip paper whereas it’s repelled by a non-pervious ceramic plate.”

“Mmm… Everything is about chemistry with you, isn’t it?”

He looks across at me, incredulously.

“Well yes. Everything _is_ about chemistry, John. There really isn’t anything else.”

I try to work out a good argument to this but I appear to be failing when Mycroft simply strolls in. That’s the thing with our sitting room. People do that. They just walk in. Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, clients… We should fit a revolving door.

Mycroft looks purposeful. “Sherlock, we have a suspect in custody. We are looking to positively identify her as Ernestine von der Ostensacher and are about to question her. You’ve met her. I would appreciate your contribution. Car’s outside.” He stands to one side to let him through. Sherlock merely spears another greasy chip.

“No. It’s not convenient, Mycroft, as you can see I’m having supper with John. It’s been a long day. You’ll just have to manage without me for once.”

“The future queen of England’s life is at stake but you’re more interested in eating chips?”  
Sherlock puts down his fork. Turns to face him, “Today John and I have broken into a power station to provide you with a valuable lead, uncovered a criminal network, deactivated a bomb and thwarted a terrorist attack on Scotland Yard. What, dear brother have you done?”

Mycroft stands a little straighter. 

We ignore him for a while. Carry on eating. Perhaps he will go away.

Sherlock slaps Mycroft’s hand as he moves to pinch a chip. 

Mycroft says “Well since you asked, we have successfully detained your neighbour Karl. He hadn’t got far. He was hailing a cab on the Euston Road. Resisted arrest, made a bit of a scene, but we now have him in custody.” Sherlock nods approvingly as he chews. Mycroft continues:“Your landlady decided to spend a few days at the seaside, a wise precaution. She was escorted to Paddington Station earlier this afternoon, taking the train to Portsmouth. She didn’t seem unduly upset by today’s events.”

“Why should she? She’s Mrs Hudson. She’s fine.” says Sherlock, swigging his tea.

“You’ll be relieved to know we’ve also had in a forensic team in here in this flat this afternoon. Adds Mycroft. The whole flat has been thoroughly swept for bugs as you asked. There are no more cameras. So don’t concern yourselves. No one is spying on you.” He smiles at each of us in turn.

Now aware that Mycroft has not been entirely idle, Sherlock is a little more helpful. “Lestrade’s forensics team took fingerprints at Battersea. See if they match Ernestine’s. That should give you a positive ID.” He’s not even looking at his brother. Everything about Sherlock’s body language tells us he has no intention of going out again tonight. 

Mycroft nods. Making for the door, he leaves us with:“We will have to be quite….persuasive when we interview the suspects. I would hate to have the wrong people.”  
Sherlock’s reloads his chip fork.

“Goodbye Mycroft.” I tell his back.

So Karl is also in for questioning. Presumably Mycroft’s people will be spending a pleasant evening ‘interviewing’ him. I wonder how much Karl enjoys being in thumbscrews or having his balls clamped…Downstairs the front door closes.

Something has been on my mind. “Sherlock, what about Mary. When you were explaining things at Scotland Yard, why didn’t you tell them about Mary?”

He screws up his chip paper and wipes his lips “Because I think we should talk to Mary first.”

“I don’t want to talk to Mary.” _(Ever)._

He walks over to his violin case, takes it out and begins to play.

So Karl has gone, Mrs Hudson has gone. We have the place to ourselves. It’s been a hell of a day. I finish my supper then go over and pour us a drink. 

Sherlock is playing a new piece that I’ve never heard before. It’s a beautiful, lament. I think he must have been composing again. I like to hear him compose, a musical work in progress - new life born a bit at a time. 

My old room is vacant again. I should fetch some clean sheets so I can sleep up up there tonight. Only I don’t want to. But I don’t know how to say that to Sherlock. He must expect me to go up. He pauses to put resin on the bow. This is my opportunity to broach the subject: “Do you want me to sleep in my own room tonight?” He doesn’t turn to face me. Just carries on applying resin to the strings.

“Do you want to sleep in your own room?”

I pause before I say, “I prefer your bedroom.” _I do, it’s warmer, it’s a better room. You’re there._

“Sleep in my room, then.” He tucks his violin back under his chin, resumes playing. As simple as that.

Sherlock checks his emails before we go to bed, Ernestine’s ID has been verified. She’s in custody. The Duchess of Cambridge’s life is in Mycroft’s hands now, there’s nothing more we can do.

\---------------

The sash window is slightly open. One bedside lamp is on. Sherlock’s already curled up on one the side of the bed nearest the door. I’m nearest the boiler. He might already be asleep so I’ll be quiet.

What to wear. He doesn’t wear anything. I’m okay with that, it’s not awkward. It’s really warm in here, so maybe I won’t wear anything either. I pull off my shirt over my head, spread it out on the back of the Lloyd Loom chair beneath the boiler. I unbuckle my belt, undo my flies pull off my trousers. I fold them and place them on the chair. The lamplight is dim. Sherlock’s features are cast in shadow. I can’t tell if he’s asleep. I face the mattress, hook my thumbs into my boxer shorts, pull them down, leave them on the floor. Naked, I just stand there for a second or two, the air on my skin before opening up the quilt and sliding into bed. As my side of the mattress dips Sherlock immediately turns away from me, drawing his knees up tight. I click off the light.


	22. 3 am

My heart’s thumping against my ribs, I’m running, carrying so much heavy equipment. Sweat running down my back, the air’s stagnant, dusty, there’s a smell of burning, people are shouting but I can’t understand them. Someone nearby is wailing. The little boy above me on the balcony might be two years old, the mother lifts him over the rails, her pleading eyes single me out in the crowd - I’m the soldier with the medical bag. Behind her, the ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ of gunfire. Jesus, let me pass! Get out of the way! I’m holding my arms up, the men are running, barging into me, I yell something to the mother, I can catch him, his feet dangle near my head, (men stream past, barge into my shoulder - another and another), I can catch the boy, take him to safety. My arms are outstretched, slow motion - the woman lets go of his little hands. A blinding flash, the ground shakes, one note sounds a constant in my ears. A soldier falls backwards against me, knocks me off my feet as he crumples, we land heavily together on concrete, my mouth’s full of dust, it fills my throat, I’ve lost the supplies. Oh God, the man on my lap, there’s blood, tissue, brain matter where the face should be, I’m showered in red, there’s wet on my face, my gun, my uniform. Where’s the child? Where’s the child? I can’t see him, just rubble raining down, plaster, dust. People screaming…

A hand seizes my wrist mid-air holds it down against my hip. A light comes on. Where am I? There’s no air, I’m breathing and breathing but there’s no air in here, no air at all! I’m suffocating, kicking, I’m going to die! There’s no air! Someone’s here, a man’s arm, who’s here? I’m not alone, yes the hand, get off me! Let me go! But it anchors me down. I remember I’m in Sherlock’s room, I’m with Sherlock, it was just another nightmare, another stupid fucking panic attack. I can, I can, I can breathe, it wasn’t real. I’m alright, gasping, panting, I’m alright... The images, the horror, they’re subsiding, pixelating, retreating back to hell. Sweat and tears make their way down to the pillow as the terror sloughs from me. It’s like shedding a skin...

Deep breath inhale… exhale for longer… got to decrease the heart rate. I’m okay, I’m safe...The hand on my wrist moves round, the fingertips rest gently on my pulse point - my wrist is a fretboard, my frailty laid bare.

His shoulder leans nearer, body heat as I breathe away the dread. _I’m sorry, Sherlock. Who’d want to share a bed with me?_

His own breathing pattern is much slower, regular, try to get mine down to the same level, synchronise… in… out… a warm pocket of space between his neck and his collarbone. 

The rain lashes down I can hear it pouring out of the guttering, the drains might not cope. 

In here it’s warm, dry, safe. I’m calming down. I’m fine now. The lamp is still on. _Let’s leave it on._

Sherlock’s chest rises and falls with a slow, steady regularity, his grip on my hand beings to relax. Slow, sleepy breaths on my forehead. Peaceful.

I wonder what haunts his dreams. He must have nightmares too. Everyone does, I think...Maybe not as often as me...

His grip starts to fail, his heavy hand falls overboard settling near my tailbone. He must have dozed off. 

My own hand, still on my hip feels a bit trapped now. With nowhere neutral for it to go, I place it in the small of Sherlock’s back, it’s comfortable there. His skin is soft and downy. It’s okay to do this, it’s the middle of the night. He doesn’t even know. Or care. He’s probably asleep.

We probably won’t even remember in the morning that we lay together like this, naked in eachothers arms. 

We each might think it was a dream or we’ll have forgotten it entirely more likely. Because it’s no big deal. it doesn’t mean anything, we both know that…

It’s warm. I am at home.

Sherlock’s not asleep. There’s a subtle motion, his head on the pillow. On my forehead, just below my hairline, he plants a soft kiss. Unexpected. Uncharacteristic. Exquisite.

Unthinking, I look up, kiss him gently on the lips in reply. No response. I kiss him again, an automatic impulse, I linger a little this time, his lips are soft and plush just as I imagined. I can’t stop myself, I go back for more but I’m met halfway by his lips on mine. His body leans closer: chests together, skin against skin, his hand spans my shoulder his calf slips over mine. Entwined, he’s kissing me back. Gently, rhythmically. My God it’s the most natural thing in the world.

So close… Is he awake? Is this deliberate? I need to know. I gently ease back, look into his eyes. They flicker, like he’s reading my soul, making a deduction. It’s another pivotal moment as he takes a breath - my whole world is in his eyes as the lids slowly fall, his deep voice breaks a little as he utters one word: ”John.” It’s a declaration. I feel it more than hear it. His head tilts, we drop out of focus as his lips part against mine. 

Closer, closer. A surge of magnetic energy swells my heart, burns down my core filling my groin with hunger and yearning. _Oh, Sherlock, you just cut the last guy rope. I’m going to make love to you now._


	23. M for Music

There is music when we kiss, in the contact of our lips, in the dance of our tongues, there’s rhythm, there’s harmony and there’s syncopation. The energy he emanates it’s as though he had this moment ready for me. His fingers quiver as he touches my face. My hand runs along his side - so slender and sleek. If only all of my body could touch all of his! 

Deep kisses, escalating passion. I never thought, I never hoped he could let this happen. _Please let me do this Sherlock. Please don’t stop me._

Moving him onto his back, I’m half on top of him, his cheeks are flushed, his lips red and his eyes full of want. We’re hard against one another. Our bodies, our lips communicating so much more than our stupid words had ever done. Sliding our bodies together, he presses back finding friction on my hip bone. His hand moves down from my back to my arse and we’re kissing again - wet and urgent, ardent passion. The feel of his skin against mine, his hands gripping me - there is only going one way this is going, oh sweet Jesus, I never dared imagine...

I know what I want to do, I have to let him know. Breaking the rhythm I hold his tongue between my lips. He’s confused at first. I move my mouth up and down, sucking gently while my hand slides down the undulations of his body, to stroke the textured skin of his balls. With a flash of comprehension, he yields to me. Sweet assent.

I want to savour this. Remembering what he liked before, I turn my attention downwards. I scatter little kisses on his jaw. I bluntly nibble and kiss and lick down the length of his neck, the thin skin of his collarbone. I’ve never felt more manly than I do right now.

There’s a little body hair here, bruised ribs to gently kiss, the bullet wound - I linger there, lovingly, my breath on the scar tissue. I find a nipple, make circles around with my tongue, suck gently. His back arches at the contact, he moves his hips under me. His palms are now on my shoulders his whole body is trembling as he gasps, it’s barely a whisper but I hear him say, “Please.” 

_God, Sherlock you don’t need to beg._

I pause to look down his long lean body. I’ve seen him naked plenty of times before but never like this. He’s so beautiful. My hand goes down, gently holds him. 

He’s iron in silk. He’s mine.

I glance up at his face: vulnerable, open, trusting.

Parting his legs, I slide my body down between them. 

The delicate tracing of my finger up his raised inner thigh draws out a breathy sigh. Goosebumps under my fingertips. I lick around the base of his shaft, there’s a crescent of black hairs. His leg begins to tremble, he has his eyes closed, he’s lost, a knuckle at his mouth. I stroke up and down the warmth of him with my tongue, varying the pressure. His hands go down to his sides they scrunch at the bedsheet. I run my tongue over his slit. He can’t take too much of this. I peel off the fingers of his right hand from the sheet and hold it in mine. _I’m going to look after you._

He throws his head back as I take him in my mouth.

The privilege of this intimacy, my capacity to destroy him or empower him and here in this pool of lamplight he trusts me, he’s letting me do this. His silky hardness fills my mouth. My mouth is filled with his need. His hips pivot gently, he’s moving on instinct, quiet, deep moans of pleasure escape as I play him with my mouth. I feel his every response. This is incredible.  
Jesus I’m so hard now it’s painful. I find some friction on the bed sheet. I can wait. 

His head thrashes, his hand squeezes mine. I know what he’s trying to say. I know what he’s trying to warn me. I squeeze back. _I’m staying right here. I’m not going to leave you, Sherlock._

His body arches tense and he moans, he’s coming - he chokes out a sound, his warm essence, sweet and bitter escapes down my throat in wave after wave of ecstasy. Oh god, he’s mine. 

That was incredible. I can’t believe he let me do that. Jesus. 

He rolls onto his side facing me as I go back up to the pillow. His eyes are closed. I have to kiss him again. To touch him again. He kisses me back. With urgent need I take his hand in mine and place it over my aching cock. _Please get me off, Sherlock, I need you. Please, I’m desperate._ And he doesn’t hesitate: he engulfs me in his large hand I imagine I’m inside him, his errant thumb wracks pleasure that I can hardly bear, he’s nuzzling and suckling at my neck at the same time. Finding all my weaknesses, just the right pressure, just the perfect tempo, he’s driving me, flying me, higher and higher where the air is thin. A burst of new colours rips bliss through my body - it’s all I can stand - I’m falling into his heart. He catches me. Sweet, sweet bliss…

Eventually I open my eyes. I push a curl of hair from his face, he looks back at me then rolls onto his back.

“Are you alright?” I ask him as he stares at the ceiling instead of at me. Something emotionally overwhelming just happened to him. I’m now concerned how he’s going to deal with it.

“Yes.” His voice doesn’t quite engage. “Yes, of course I’m alright.”

*We did just have…”

“I know……” he swallows hard. There’s a silent pause... “Isn’t this the part when I get a cigarette?”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No. I’m a doctor. I’m saying no, it’s bad for you.”

“Please, John, just this once.”

What can I say.

“Go on then. Just this once, mind.”

“I don’t know where they are, you’ve hidden them.”

That’s true. I swing my legs out of bed. I’m not getting dressed, I’m still hot. So I walk naked into the shockingly cold kitchen to get his smokes. They’re at the back of the kitchen unit where we keep the tins. In the Buckingham Palace ashtray. Next to my emergency vodka. (I don’t like vodka.) I grab the matches from the drawer, too and take them to him, putting the ashtray on the bedside table behind him. He smiles, gratefully lighting up as I get washed in the bathroom.

When I come back Sherlock’s on his side resting up on his elbow. He’s taking drags from his cigarette, blowing smoke towards the window. I get back to the warmth under the covers. Immediately I sense that something is wrong. Oh Christ. What have we done?

Eventually, without looking at me he says: “You’ve done that before.” He’s obviously referring to having sex with a man. He takes another drag. “It was Major Sholto wasn’t it?” there’s an edge to his voice that he’s trying to hide.

”Yes.” I say. “But that was different.”

“What was different about it?” he’s watching my face now. He really doesn’t get it.

“Well, it wasn’t you. What I mean is, James Sholto and me, we were… It was just a ‘thing’ we had. But you, Sherlock...You must know...you’re the love of my life.”

It starts with a puckering of his chin, then his mouth contorts downwards uncontrollably. His hand goes up to cover his eyes, his whole body shakes, Sherlock is full on sobbing, the lit cigarette still burning between his fingers. My heart leaps. I gently take his cigarette, reach over and stub it out. Wrapping my arms around him, I hold him close to my chest, stroking his hair over and over. He clings to me in the night as he cries his heart out.


	24. Blunch

The smell of frying bacon and sausages wafts in on a winter breeze. There’s a bright morning light harassing my lids. Contented limbs stretch into life. My hand glides over the vacated half of the mattress, sheet creased and cool carrying sweet memories of last night.   
It’s 10.30 Monday morning. No messages. 

There are bubbles around the plug hole, a damp towel on the rail. He must have been quiet when he got up. I didn’t hear a thing.

My skin is caressed with a warm, soapy cascade. The last hands to touch me belonged to Sherlock. Skilled, elegant hands. Hands that steeple under his chin when he’s thinking. Hands that hold his cup and saucer. Hands that play the violin. Those hands were on me. Expertly. My body reacts to the memory... Sherlock would be an expert, he’s been single all his life as far as I know. I’m very honoured. He was so emotional. I hope to God it was not a one-off. I turn down the temperature of the shower. Don’t want to be wasteful. 

It must have been nearly 5 am when the tears were spent and we finally lay beside each other. I think he was asleep when I kissed his eyelids and told him I loved him. His hand was resting on my heart. I think all that was real…

I can’t check because he’s not here. Probably just nipped out. I expect he wanted to be on his own for a while…

My body starts to react audibly to the incoming smell of fried breakfasts. I’ll do us scrambled eggs and beans on toast, real coffee, we’ve got all the ingredients for that. The kitchen is still a laboratory but it doesn’t look like there’s anything actually growing. I’ll just shove all this glassware out of the way for now. I’ll get it all ready and hopefully he’ll be back soon. I don’t suppose he’s gone far... he probably won’t be long...

I hope he’s not… traumatised or anything. What if he’s walking the streets now, having regrets. What if he’s ashamed, embarrassed, he might be in turmoil. What if he feels he can’t face me...But he seemed okay, just… overwhelmed. I didn’t coerce him, he wanted me, I’m certain of that - the way he looked at me and touched me - vulnerable, ravenous, he was trembling when we kissed. There was no mistake. Sex doesn’t alarm your brother, Mycroft, not in the least. He’s just sensitive. He needs to protect himself, that’s all. Still, I can’t believe it happened. He trusts me with his heart...I want to share his bed again tonight. Every night. 

The coffee is ready. 

Breakfast sizzles and hisses. “Good morning, John!” Sherlock strides into the kitchen, smiling broadly, unwinding his scarf. My heart soars at the sight of him. He walks straight over to me and kisses my mouth.

So I didn’t imagine it. My God, he’s beautiful.

Seeing that I’m going to feed him, as a gesture he rapidly pushes half a dozen more pieces of glassware into the nearest kitchen unit. “Are you making brunch? Oh good I’m starving.”  
Everything has changed and nothing. We’re still the same two people but now we might have been blessed with wings or superpowers. He looks happy, relaxed. He’s not regretting anything. Sherlock Holmes has walked through the flames and survived.

“It’s probably a bit late even for brunch.” I tell him. “This is more like blunch.”

“Good, I like blunch.”

“Any news on the case.”

“Put the radio on, John. It will be on the news by now. The Duchess of Cambridge was found in a cottage on the Sandringham Estate late last night. Too late for the dailies.” He produces a newspaper from his pocket and slaps it on the table as he sits down, his coat still on. “It will be in the Evening Standard later.”

“How did you find out? Was it Mycroft’s lot or was it Scotland Yard?”

“Mycroft rang earlier, didn’t you hear the phone?” Obviously not.

The radio is on, we tuck into our fry-up. He reads today’s paper and I read the Standard from two nights ago. There are newspapers all over this flat. Even on the walls…

“We’ve been invited to the press conference at midday though at Scotland Yard.”

“I’m due at the surgery in an hour and a half.”

“No, you’re not. I’ve fixed that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I called Sarah this morning. Told her Mary’s had the baby. You’re on paternity leave for the next few weeks.”

“But Mary and I have separated!”

“Well obviously she’ll find that out eventually.”

“So where did you go this morning?” I ask him as I tuck into some toast. “Did you….just go for a walk?”

“No, I went to see Mary.”

“What!” I almost choke.

“I thought it was time to have a word with her.”

“But it’s not visiting time, how come they let you in?”

“She’s not in hospital, John, she went home last night.”

“But she had a C Section.”

“No, she didn’t actually. She went down to theatre but they gave it one last try with non-rotational forceps which was successful. She’s got a daughter. Dave’s moving in with her tonight. I expect his mother will miss him.” He goes back to reading the paper.

This information should probably affect me more than it does. 

“Did you tell her we know about Three Little Pigs?”

“I didn’t need to. She’s been keeping up. I took back her personal things that I borrowed from the house the other day. Didn’t seem right to keep them.”

“What about the memory stick?”

“I gave her back the memory stick.” _Because she kept me alive._ “She should know that we trust her, John.” _Do we?_

“But, Sherlock, she’s a murderer.”

“I hardly think you and I are in a position to take the moral high ground on that point.”

“But what we’ve done is totally different! She’s an assassin, a paid killer!”

“You’re talking about motivation. It’s semantics. What difference does motivation make to the deceased?”

I can’t agree with him on that one.

“Sherlock.”

“Mmm.”

“Did you give Mary her gun back?”

He keeps reading. Wordlessly, he pulls out Mary’s semi-automatic, it hits the table with a metallic clunk. 

So we’re keeping the gun.

“Sherlock.”

“Mmm.”

“How did Joe manage to get a weapon past Scotland Yard security?”

“Easy. He used a Glock 17 plastic handgun. Invisible to an electromagnetic scanner. Only the firing pin is metal. That was hidden in his equipment bag with all the other metal parts he carries. They don’t tend to get spotted.”

“Mary will probably get one of those, next.”

“I doubt it. She’s focussing on other things.”

“Did she ask about me?”

“Yes. No. Not directly. She asked me if you and I were lovers.” Shit.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her the truth.”

“What did you say exactly?”

“I told her I’d loved you since the day I met you.” With absolute sincerity his grey eyes look up and me and my heart skips a beat. I want to go over to him but he breaks the moment by flicking through the newspaper and talking again.

”Apparently she wanted more specific data. She asked if we were having sex together. I wasn’t sure of the correct answer to that question. When I hesitated she said I didn’t need to say anything. Not sure why she asked…”

Mary is believing what she wants to believe. Perhaps it makes her feel better to think Sherlock and I have been at it for years. Although this is my wife we’re talking about. I’ve never known her to suffer a guilty conscience before, I don’t even know if that’s something she’s capable of… 

I must be looking puzzled as Sherlock says:

“Well don’t look at me, you’re the expert on women.”

“Hardly, Sherlock, I’m a bloody disaster with women.”

“That’s true actually now you come to mention it.” 

I pour another puddle of HP sauce on my plate. 

“So you and Mary. Did you talk about anything else?”

“Her breasts.” The sauce bottle hits the plate as it falls from my grasp. He explains:

“It was relevant, the baby was crying, she had to feed it. She was enlightening me on the properties of breast milk, it was very informative. Not an area I have particularly researched. He produces a vial of yellowy, creamy fluid from his pocket and places it on the breakfast table between his tea and the microscope. “I’m going to work on that later.”

“I doubt it will crop up in a murder enquiry.”

“You never know.”

So while I was having a pleasant lie-in this morning my psychotic wife was telling my best friend all about her breasts (the same best friend who I was making love to the night before). An odd situation even for my life.

He picks up the vial, tilts it from side to side in the light “Apparently, when the baby is latched on and feeding, it creates in the new mother a sensation not unlike orgasm.”

That would be the womb contracting. 

I subtly curl my tongue against my fork and say: “Well, nipples can be very sensitive.”

Sherlock’s head goes down. he’s actually blushing. “I know.” 

Classic FM Radio news bulletin confirms that Ernestine von der Ostensacher has been charged with kidnapping the Duchess of Cambridge. The Duchess is alive and well. I pop some more toast in. Take down the jam. Still hungry. Sherlock tells me that Mycroft’s persuasive skills eventually reaped the results. He must be very proud of himself. He’s probably having cake today.

I’m working my way through the Entertainments section of the London Evening Standard when the ‘Here Comes Bod’ rattles on the worktop. 

“Hello Greg.”

“John, I wanted to thank you again for yesterday. I owe you my life, no doubt about it.”

“It’s fine, Greg. I’m just glad we got there in time.”

“Ernestine, Joe and Karl all detained. Jim Moriarty’s still dead. Yeah, it’s a great result.”

“It is indeed, yep. It’s quite a relief.”

“Wasn’t there originally a hit out on you, John? What happened there? There were other dates on that wall at the power station. Somebody called Agra. Is there still a hitman on the loose we should be looking for?” 

I pause and look over at Sherlock eating his blunch.

“Oh, no. Mycroft’s lot dealt with that Agra guy straight after the incident at Bart’s Hospital, we knew about him. It was hush-hush you know how they are. It’s sorted. He’s out of the picture.”

“Er, yeah right. Okay then, great. Let’s hope these bastards in custody get sent down for a very long stretch. Ernestine and Karl will probably face trial in Serbia.”

“Yeah, well, good.”

“Hey, John, mate, listen: I hate to bring this up, but we’re still missing a couple of statements from you. Any chance you could stop by the station later. We could go for that drink afterwards if you like. I know a...”

“Sure, I’ll pop along sometime today. No problem. See you down there. Cheers Greg, bye.”

I close my newspaper. Something I’ve read has given me an idea.


	25. Valentine's Day

While I wrote my statements in front of a duty officer at Scotland Yard, Sherlock argued with his brother on the phone about how to handle the Mary situation. It was decided that Mary would be under close surveillance until further notice. Mycroft gave his assurance that ‘If Mary so much as changes her brand of eye shadow, we will know about it.”

Sherlock hangs up as we leave the building, making our way towards the street.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes.”

“What did Mary name the baby?”

“Do you know, I can’t actually remember.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

Greg is panting for breath and grabbing at my shoulder.

“John! Sherlock! Glad I caught you both. The press conference is starting in twenty minutes, You ought to be there. We’ve got the world’s press in the room, there’s gonna be a lot of questions, we’ve even found you a hat!” Grinning, he pulls a deerstalker hat from his jacket pocket. One glance at Sherlock tells me he’s not up for it.

I see an opportunity.

“Sorry Greg, not this time, we’ve got a date.”

A snigger of confusion, “What, both of you?”

“Yes, both of us.”

I should help him out. I take Sherlock’s hand in mine and stand a little closer. I watch Greg’s face as the penny drops.

“I didn’t know you were...well, y’know.” He rubs the back of his head, processing for a moment. He smiles, broadly at each of us in turn, winks and tells us to have a good time. “We’re still going to go for that drink, though.” He pats me on the shoulder as he starts back towards the building. “I’m getting them in, obviously. What is it, champagne or best Malt? Call me!” 

“Why did you tell him that?”

“Because it’s true, come on Sherlock, conjure us up a taxi, I’m taking you out. You’ve been working too hard, you deserve a treat.”

He whirls me round, pulls me in hard and kisses me on the lips - in broad daylight under the revolving sign of New Scotland Yard. That kiss of his will one day be the death of me. His gloved hand strokes at my hair. He smiles looking deep into my eyes. I snap back into reality - he’s taken me aback.

“This would make quite a photograph.” I stammer, a little embarrassed.

“The press are all in there.” he nods towards reassuringly towards the building and kisses me again.

\---------------------------------------------------

As we’re a little early, the cab drops us off at Regent’s Park. We get tea from a kiosk, and go for a walk. It’s one of those crisp winter days with a cold, bright sun. We watch our reflections from a little bridge. The steam from our tea and our warm breath combine and dissipate into the chilly air as we lean over the railing.

Sherlock’s been thinking again: “What you said...implied just now to Lestrade. Just to clarify. Are we in a relationship John?”

“Yes, I think so. I think we have been for a long time, really. Don’t you?”

Our reflections sip their tea, a little too hot. Two leaves stick together and float by.

“Irene Adler knew.” I say.

“The Woman…”

“Mmm.”

“Why did you always deny it, John?” He impersonates me, “I’m not actually gay.”

“Well, for one thing it’s not entirely untrue and for another... you didn’t or maybe couldn’t want me - or anyone else for that matter, or so I thought. It was a convenient way of explaining why we weren’t together. Without telling anyone that.” 

“I see. That’s very gallant of you, John. Confusing, but gallant.”

“I just hope people don’t find out just yet.”

“Are you ashamed of me?” instantly he’s hurt. Turning to me, not my reflection.  
“No, you fool. I just don’t want Sarah to find out. I’m on paternity leave remember! I’d far rather spend the next six weeks catching up with my blog and spending time on cases with you.”

There’s a commotion nearby. A purple helicopter thunders above us in the ice-white sky. People are waving and pointing, someone shouts “It’s Kate!” The Duchess of Cambridge is on her way back to Kensington Palace, back to her husband and baby. Case over. 

“Can I move back into the flat?”

“I thought you already had.”

“Not really. I need to talk to Mrs Hudson about getting my old room back.”

“Okay, fine. But you we don’t necessarily need two rooms. Do we?”

“You know future flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“What?”

“I have terrible nightmares, Sherlock. Violent flashbacks. I can lash out in my sleep. It can be quite alarming.”

“That's...not a problem.”

“And I have this unhealthy compulsion. I seem to almost seek out dangerous situations. I need it or I just get really depressed for some reason.”

“Mmm yes, I’ve noticed that.”

“Also, I’ve never actually told anyone this. I have a bit of a drink problem. I mean I think I have it under control, but it can be an issue. From time to time. I lapse.”

“So you have a past, you like trouble and you have a tendency to over-indulge in certain substances. John, you’re my best friend. You know how it is with me - I already knew all that.”  
Threading my arm through Sherlock’s I lead him back to the main road up the steps to the Royal Academy of Music.

Sherlock pauses. I’ve actually managed to surprise him.

“Why are we here, John?”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock.”

“Seriously? Valentine’s Day? I mean _Valentine’s Day._ Have you met me?”

“Trust me. You’ll like this.”

I take his coat from him as we walk through into the auditorium. The music students on stage are in casual clothes for their afternoon recital. They are tuning up their instruments and arranging their sheet music as we walk in. I throw our coats onto a seat and lead Sherlock towards the front. Rows of seating have been removed. The musicians strike up the first bars of Swan Lake Waltz by Tchaikowsky. Perfect. It’s the middle of a Monday afternoon in central London but here it could be New Years Eve in Vienna. I take put my arm around his waist and take his hand in mine. 

“What’s this…” He stammers, his face fills with astonished delight.

“Sherlock. After all this time, I owe you this at least. Shut up and dance.”


End file.
